


She Put Her Scar Upon My Skin

by bottlefame_brewglory



Series: It's Empty In The Valley Of Your Heart [1]
Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, F/M, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-05-04 20:32:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 113,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5347610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottlefame_brewglory/pseuds/bottlefame_brewglory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elizabeth Keen, a fledgling FBI Agent, stumbles upon the Concierge of Crime, Raymond Reddington.</p><p>An AU in which Liz finds Reddington before he surrenders himself to the FBI, spiraling his plans out of control and forming an entirely new relationship with Elizabeth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Taken Away To The Dark Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Lady, running down to the riptide,  
> taken away to the dark side.” – Riptide, Vance Joy

Grey. It’s all she can see. Grey is the steel of the benches, the refrigerators, the sterilised equipment resting in the polished sink. Grey is the colour of the mortuary attendant’s clothing, dull and grim. Grey is the colour of her father’s skin, tacky and _dead_. But purple, purple is the colour of his lips, the colour smudged under his eyes, the bruising that is painted across his skin. The only colour within the bleak room he is being held in. They must have washed the red away.

Cold. It’s all she can feel. The refrigerators hum, battling off the decay and rot for the bodies within; knights in shining armour. Cold was the spring wind that whistled wildly through the trees the night before, when her phone rang in the early hours of the morning. No one ever got a call at the three o’clock in the morning to have it be good news. Cold was her father’s skin. She knows that were she to pull back the lids of his eyes, the normal warm blue would be icy, cold, _dead_.

“It’s him,” and her voice is hoarse, choked and yet so _loud_ in the deathly silence she stands in. The attendant drags a _grey_ sheet over his body and he is concealed, hidden. The tray that is now his bed slides soundlessly back into its place; his rigid body, unmoving.

A nod of the grim face attendant, with eyes that are not unkind but more _indifferent_ , as if they had seen it all before, has Elizabeth Keen turning to the door. She can feel the presence of her father behind her now, as if the blues eyes hidden behind dead skin are boring holes into her back. She can feel the presence of _all_ the dead, their silence mocking, because they know, _know_ , that it will be impossible to let him go, that it will take months or _years_ , to move on from his departure, and for him, it was only moments, maybe not even that.

Elizabeth sees nothing as she walks through the hospital, just the grey tiles of the floor; grim and scuffed. All sound is muted; even the steady beat of her heart, quiet. A steady mantra streams through her conscious; constant and unyielding.

 _Your father has been in a car accident_.

The car rumbles to life beneath her, the engine giving a steady growl as she shifts into gear. Liz has no recollection of how she got here, how she got her seatbelt on.

 _Passed away at the scene_.

She rolls to a stop, the red light glaring at her, daring her to cross over the yellow line into the empty and abandoned intersection. There is no one in sight. Liz stays where she is.

 _We are sorry for your loss_.

The click to the lock of her apartment sounds like a gunshot, the dirty brass door knob glinting in the fluorescent light like a gun as she shoves the door open. The room is quiet, dark and small, causing Liz to feel claustrophobic with the immensity of her grief. She treads through the kitchen, the only illumination from the clock of her microwave, flashing at her incessantly.

Her bed is unmade, cold now. A phone charger lays broken on the floor, ripped out the wall in Liz’s hast to get to the hospital, not realising that her phone had still been plugged in. She violently kicks it away, a harsh sobbing scream tearing from her chest. She crawls into bed; an ache in her chest that she is sure will never leave her.

Sleep evades her. She can imagine that she can smell her father’s cologne; musk and sandalwood. Tears track down her cheeks as she realises that all she could smell on him last time they met was cigarette smoke. A man that had survived cancer killed swerving off the road to avoid an animal.

She can hear his voice, so gruff but tinged with fondness; Liz’s _home_. She can feel his fingers running through her hair as he tells her stories. Feel his fingers grabbing her own as she worries at her scar, nervous and anxious before he wraps her in his solid embrace, soothing all apprehension away.

By the end of the night, Liz believes that she may rub her scar raw.

When she wakes in the morning, groggy and with an aching body, she is caught in a moment of blissful unawareness. Her father is alive and the most monumental thing that would occur today was her classes at Quantico. Her phone is buzzing relentlessly on her bedside table, the sound spiralling Liz into a sense of déjà vu. The floodgates open, realisation settles like a suffocating blanket around her. She stares at the phone, unable to move, barely able to _breathe_.

It won’t stop, the vibrations threatening to cause it to tip off the edge of the table and crash to the floor, shattering Liz’s already weakened composure. She raises a shaky hand, latches onto the phone with a grip that is a bit _too_ tight. She answers the call with a gruff,

“Yes?”

The voice of one of professors from Quantico greets her solemnly from the other end of the line. They’ve been made aware of her loss, she is not expected to return to base for at least a few weeks. They suggest that she takes some time for herself and, if necessary, there are many psychologists on base that she may speak with. Their parting words ring in Liz’s ears.

 _We are sorry for your loss_.

They offer such meaningless words, to provide comfort and understanding. Liz doesn’t think they could begin to _comprehend_ the pain and suffering she is now feeling. The wound in her chest gives a steady throb with each heartbeat, the ache unbearable. Sam Scott had been torn from the world, but Liz feels as if he has been wrenched out of her chest cavity.

Sam was not Liz’s biological father. She has no recollection of her original family; only seeing scorching flames and lingering smoke when she forces her mind back that far, to the fragile memories of a four year old. It’s how she got her scar; that she is certain of. That was all Sam had been willing to tell her.

His face was always grave, serious, when she asked the innocent questions of a child trying to _find_ herself; the innocent questions of an abandoned girl wondering why she was never good enough, wanting so desperately to know why her parents left her. Sam would always pull her close, rest his cheek on her hair and tell that he loved her, that she mattered to _him_. He loved her with everything he had, flooded her with affection and kindness, and raised her to be the woman she is today. But, he never gave her answers. He never told her how she came to be in his care.

As a young child, Liz had pottered along, happy with her obliviousness. The unknown didn’t lurk like a disease in her bloodstream, nag in the back of her mind, like it did when she was a teen. It didn’t crawl under her skin, the secrets, they didn’t fester within her until she snarled and snapped at the only person in the world that she cared for, loved. It had driven her wild, savage. She was caged by silence, by the normality of her situation, the _routine_. She would demand answers until her voice was hoarse, until she would storm to her room, fury biting into her soul. No answers were given, no revelations. Liz never got any closer to understanding.

Until one day, Sam had seemingly crumpled. Crumpled like the ash of his cigarette as it trembled on the precipice, leaping from the flame, even as the heat chewed the other way. His weathered and worn face had looked at her so sadly, his gaze heavy as he stared. Liz had waited with bated breath, irrational fear clutching at her heart, because now she didn’t _want_ to know. Didn’t want to know that her suspicions had been correct all along and the longer he gazed at her, the more she knew.

He didn’t know.

Sam didn’t know what happened the night of the fire, only that there _had_ been one. That her parents were dead, missing, gone and she was a little girl that needed someone to love her, needed a home. He had taken her in without a second thought, loved her the moment his eyes landed on her. He had said that the past was the past; that she was loved and that was all that mattered. She’d offered him a feeble smile, the disappointment smothering in its intensity, but in the end he was right. It was the past. She never asked who took her to Sam.

Liz struggled and dragged her way out of the angry, furious rut that she had found herself in. Sam had helped her, supported her, like he always did. She graduated high school, achieving the highest of marks. She stilled remembers how her father had beamed at her with pride, how excited he had been when she had received her acceptance letter to college. They had opened a bottle of scotch, one an old friend had given to him _many_ years ago. They both got outrageously drunk, staying up until the sun rose, like the hope and excitement within Liz, across the horizon. Sam had sat up from their front lawn, sprawled upon it as he had been. His eyes slid closed as the first rays of light settled on his face.

“There’s your future, Butterball.”

He had cried the day she left, wiping roughly at his eyes as she choked out a goodbye. They had been drinking the night before, preparing her for the alcoholic onslaught she was going to have to endure, he had said. He lamely blamed the tears on his hangover, eliciting a watery smile from her at his weak excuses. She kissed him on the cheek, watched his reflection in the rear-view mirror until he was out of sight. He never stopped waving.

She called him every Sunday from the day she arrived at college. When she started at Quantico he joked that he would have to warn the more ‘criminally inclined’ of his friends, sounding so proud. She called every _single_ Sunday. They would speak on the phone for hours. Liz’s cheeks would ache from her smile.

Tomorrow is a Sunday.

Liz does not leave her bed. She does not eat, though she orders takeout. Pizza, Italian, Indian and kebabs litter her apartment, most left untouched. The food has spoiled, is starting to smell. Liz can’t bring herself to care; she just shuts her bedroom door. Sam would be appalled.

Occasionally she dozes, ignores the buzzing of her phone. The messages that should comfort but only infuriate; they are words that she doesn’t read but knows what they say all the same. There is the rare missed call, from a friend, her aunt, from her fiancé.

Nick knows her well enough, knows that she will want to be alone, that his company would be neither wanted nor appreciated. She should be thankful, that he understands, yet it irritates her because she knows it drives him mad. He had always tried to mould her, shape her into something that would shatter, turn her into something that she was not. At a time, she had almost let him.

They had met late in college, he was studying medicine, was intelligent and attractive. He was older and yet had been so shy, awkward in his flirtatious advances towards her. She had found it endearing, the way he would occasionally stutter over his words, how he would unconsciously touch her arm or shoulder. He gained confidence as Liz fell for him, became to rely on him. Liz marvelled at the man he grew to be, the assurance and self-belief that radiated from him. The way he treated her like a princess, fawning over her every need. His steady support of her, the constant and solid reassurance that he was _there_ , just for her, was a comfort. The dedication he had to his studies, like she had to her own. They grew from each other, became so entwined, so _in love_. As certain as she was in her love for him, when he proposed, she said hesitated, told him to wait, allow her to think on it. Nick was normality and security.

It was then that his confidence and self-belief became arrogance, his sly remarks more snide than funny. He’d take her out with his friends and comment on her behaviour afterwards. She was too aloof, didn’t open up enough, reclusive. Why couldn’t she just _try_ for him? His words were sharp, able to cut her to her core. His fawning turned manipulative; harsh and cold like shackles latched to her wrists. Everything he bought her, gave her, he expected reciprocation. He loves her, she knows he does, but he craves control, authority. Liz is beginning to _loath_ him.

Yet, she can’t help but crack a small smile when her doorbell rings and the only thing waiting for her outside is a box of Chinese takeaway, _Wing Yee_ printed on it in a tacky font that likely offends Chinese culture. Who else could it be but Nick? She scoops the package off the floor retreating back into the sanctuary of her room. She eats for the first time in days. The meal is delicious. She’ll have to remember to thank him.

She stays hidden away for weeks, until finally, staring at her bleak reflection in the mirror of her poorly lit bathroom, she has had enough. Grief still swims in her eyes, drowning out the brightness of the blue, leaving them dull, but she has had enough of isolation. Sam would have come to get her by now, dragged her out to the cinemas after letting her wallow in misery for long enough. He wasn’t coming for her now; she needed to do this herself.

Her teeth are furry, breath sour, and hair, oily and slick. The yellow of the light paints her skin a sickly pallor, highlighting the fields of purple, almost black, beneath her eyes. Her lips are cracked and dry, cheekbones and jaw line unusually sharp from lack of regular meals. She turns to the shower, small but clean, though the tiles are cracked.

The water beats down upon her, hot, heavy and merciless. She stands there for a long time, unmoving, still, hoping that the water, the rivers running down her broken body, may just heal her. At the least wash away the anguish and sorrow riddled into her pores and fibres. Eventually she bends down, weary hands grasping the shampoo bottle, rubs the soap into her hair, feels the grime and oil work free. The flannel she rubs over her body is rough, turning her skin red as she scrubs ruthlessly. The rhythmic brushing of her teeth lulls her briefly into thoughtlessness, her gaze focused beyond the soaked shower curtain, heedless of the water that runs beneath it and out of the shower alcove. She cuts the water, towels the droplets away that cling to her.

It has been three weeks since Sam’s death.

Liz thinks it’s time that she left the apartment. She steps out the bathroom, into the dimly lit living room; all the curtains are drawn, untouched for days. The stench of weeks old food is heavy in the air, causes her to wrinkle her nose in distaste. She still makes no move to clean the mess, merely drags herself into some jeans and a crumpled shirt, sighing as the door clicks shut behind her.

The world hasn’t changed, has not been tilted on its axis, though Liz feels as if she can barely walk straight. Sam Scott’s presence is not missed in the hustle of Washington; the traffic still as manic as ever, the people still unaware as they stroll down the street, lost in their own thoughts, troubles, dreams. Liz sinks back into the routine, the normality. This was where she lived.

She had not based herself in Quantico, had decided that she would settle in a city nearby, rent an apartment where she could escape. Sam had suggested it, had known how hung up on her studies she could become. The commute was long and tedious, early mornings and late nights, but Liz was not fazed by it, at the end of the day she had a home to go to.

Nick had wanted to buy a house together. She’d told him that they should save their money, not rush, buy something that they were thrilled with.

She does not want to leave her apartment.

The coffee shop she enters, announced by the chime of a bell, is bustling and warm and one of her favourite places in the world. There is a nook, hidden away by the fireplace where Liz would sit, book in hand and read the day away. Her favourite barista, Charlie, would keep her cup filled for her, bringing them out without her asking. He had a knack for knowing the type and amount of coffee she would need to tackle that day, or book. The staff are busy currently, the cafe almost filled to capacity, patrons escaping the heat of summer outside. Liz gives Charlie a small wave, his smile easy going, blonde curls falling into sharp eyes. He takes in her appearance; she looks better after a shower, but still gaunt, tired.

Liz moves further into the shop, the chatter and sound surrounding her is overwhelming. The silence of her apartment was calmer, but riddled with misery and pain. She breathes deeply; this will be good for her. Making her way over to the bookshelf, piled with books, old and new, tattered and untouched, Liz notices that there is someone occupying her seat, the hearth beside them cold and empty. His eyes, when they rise to meet hers from the phone in his lap, are piercing, blue. She looks away, the shock of being caught staring startling her heart into pounding in her chest. The titles of the books, so close to her face, are muddled, she can’t focus. In the peripheral of her vision she sees the stranger stand and make his way over to her. His stride is relaxed, laidback, hands shoved into his pockets as he sidles up to her.

“The barista said that I was sitting in a regular’s spot,” he says, humour in his voice as she turns to face him, “but he said you hadn’t been in for a while. I figured as soon as I sat down you’d walk in.”

His hair is scruffy and brown, drooping into his eyes, causing him to run a hand through it subconsciously. Stubble shadows his face, his jaw is chiselled and glasses frame his eyes. He was dressed casually, but he is handsome. The glint in his eye tells Liz that he knows it as well. She smiles at him, turning her attention back to the arrangement of books.

“What makes you think that I’m the regular?”

He chuckles, looks at the floor shaking his head before returning his gaze to her. Liz laughs for the first time in weeks, a quiet huff through her nose, but it’s enough for her to take notice.

“I don’t think anyone but a regular would have looked so distressed to find their favourite seat taken,” he remarks easily, brandishing an arm out to indicate the table and seat in question. He favours her with another smile, like it’s just so _easy_ for him to do so.

“Can I have it back then?” Liz asks aiming for a tone of playfulness she feels she does not quite reach. His eyes narrow minutely, but he is still smiling at her. He takes a step away nodding his head, before saying,

“As long as I get to buy you a coffee.”

He must have gone to Charlie and asked for her regular; it’s as delicious as always, the perfect temperature and the right amount of sugar. She smiles across the table at this stranger, his easy attitude and ability to keep a conversation flowing allowing Liz to relax, to find a level of peace of mind that she hasn’t had since Sam’s death. He’d introduced himself as Tom Keen with a firm handshake, eyes sparkling at her from behind his glasses.

Liz had asked him what his occupation was and he excitedly replied that he was a school teacher, had just begun work at a school with a group of 4th graders. She wonders if his boundless energy helps with his job and if the young children feed of it or it fuels their own excitement. He chats about his students, their parents, the other teachers as if he knows that she hasn’t had human contact for weeks, that she is struggling to climb out of the ocean of grief she is submerged in. He makes it so easy, she doesn’t have to try, only answer the occasional question as he distracts her from the immense shift her life has taken.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket, halting Tom from explaining how he had managed to miss one of his students trying to smuggle a penguin out of the zoo. Liz smiles at him apologetically as she answers it; he waves her off and focuses his attention outside, politely ignoring her conversation.

It’s her Aunt June.

Her sweet voice is filled with a sadness that causes the ache, the pulsing wound in Liz’s chest, to split open afresh, throbbing with each breath. A letter came, to Sam’s home in Nebraska, regarding his accounts, his property. June understands why her darling Elizabeth has stayed away, but it’s time for her to return to Nebraska, Sam has left her things, it’s time for her to come home.

“I’ll be there soon,” Liz promises, ending the call and looking up at Tom. He has a curious look on his face, as if he wants to pry, but can tell that it would not be appreciated. Liz releases a shaky breath and stands, offering him a small smile.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she truly is, “I have to go.”

He nods his head, but as Liz goes to leave, his fingers wrap gently around her wrist. She looks back at him, and he’s holding a crumpled serviette out to her. A phone number is scrawled across it in messy handwriting. _Wing Yee_ is printed in the corner. It makes her think of Nick, how she is yet to thank him for the meal, yet to make contact.

“Call me if you ever want to chat,” he offers, before releasing her wrist and with a final smile, leaves the cafe. Liz tucks the slip of paper into the back pocket of her jeans, is aware of it her entire walk home.

The leftover food is eventually thrown into the trash, the fruit flies following after it and hovering around the decimated meals. Liz will take it out on her way down to her car, after she’s packed. It won’t take long; she left a lot of her belongings and clothes at Sam’s when she left for college, in case she ever needed it, in case she ever went home. She never did. The only thing she takes apart from a fresh set of clothes is her service weapon.

With a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and the trash in her other hand, Liz trudges down to the garage. Her old Volkswagen Golf sits patiently for her, the engine long cold from disuse. She throws the trash into the garbage bin, staring at the scratched black paint of her car as she walks to the driver’s side. She’d slept in this car many a time; there would be no need for her to stop at any motels.

The drive is long, endless even, as Liz navigates over the rolling hills, the infinite flat planes, the sweeping corners and curves of America. She stops only to rest, her body used to minimal food now; beaten and mistreated into submission. Day rolls to night and then day again, her thoughts clouding her vision, memories clawing to the front of her already grief stricken mind. She was going home.

And there would be no one to greet her. No bright smiles and warm hugs, no crackling fire and the stench of cigarettes because Sam had been smoking inside _again_. Her father was gone. She swallows past the lump in her throat, blinks back the tears that sting and swell in her eyes. The tyres roll beneath her, propelling her towards an emptiness she is sure she can’t fill.

Night blankets the sky by the time Liz pulls into the worn driveway. She is utterly spent. The porch light has been left on. She can’t bring herself to get out the car, waiting for Sam to crack open the front door, beaming smile in place. He doesn’t.

The house is silent, stale and cold, unused, when she steps inside. She flicks the lights on, knowing the crevices and cracks of this house, even in the dark. The light illuminates the lounge room and then the kitchen, the bedrooms, as Liz moves throughout the house, noticing the same thing in every room. It is untouched. No one has been here since the accident.

Liz knows she won’t be able to sleep, even as exhaustion tugs at her body, weakens her limbs and droops her eyelids. She doubts she will ever be able to sleep in this house again. So she gets to work, the daunting and sickening job of sorting through her father’s belongings. The finality of it all strikes at Liz with each beat of her heart.

She wonders into the kitchen, dropping her bag onto the slate floor. A letter is opened on the scratched, scarred and stained wooden table; a statement from the bank. Liz picks it up, eyes scanning over the numbers; noticing an account number she doesn’t recognise. Large deposits of money have been made, from whom, Liz can’t tell, but the sheer amount is startling. It was more money than either Liz or Sam would ever need. Her grip has crumpled the paper, shaking slightly in her trembling hand. Confusion wars within her, knowing that this money would fall to her, money from a stranger. She tucks the statement into her back pocket, trying to force the discovery from her mind. She moves back to the living room, wondering where to start.

His clothes will still have his scent; she’ll wait to do them last, donate them to a shelter. She knows she can’t avoid his room, no matter how much she desperately wishes she could. Sam was a private man; all his belongings were stashed away in his wardrobe and cupboards, Liz had learned that specific trait from him.

The door creaks as she opens it, like it always did. It had frustrated her endlessly as a child, wanting to be able to sneak into his room, startle him awake on a Sunday morning. He had always pretended to be asleep when she crept in, though he had always been a light sleeper. She still remembers how her giggles would ring throughout the house, when he’d grab her and tickle her until she begged him to stop, promised she would never jump on him in bed again. She didn’t stop until she was nine.

The bed is made, of course it is made; Sam couldn’t leave the house if it wasn’t. This was a trait of his that Liz had _not_ picked up. Some of his clothes are folded neatly and placed on the cushion of the worn and peeling leather recliner, tucked in the corner of the room. The wardrobe is squished into the space between the wall and the window. Liz avoids it, instead heading for Sam’s bed side drawers, something easy.

She just hopes she doesn’t find any lube.

The first drawer she opens is on the side of the bed he slept on, the right. It’s packed with photos of her; birthdays, school plays, award ceremonies, camping trips. Liz sifts through them, mind numb as he father stares up at her, grin wide and arm wrapped around her younger self. She places the photos in a pile; she’ll take them home. The rest are just knickknacks and old magazines that he probably never read. Sam was serial magazine collector, subscribing but never reading. She stacked those in a pile, to leave behind.

When she pulls out the last _Boating & Fishing_ magazine, she notices a wooden box, smooth and long tucked away at the back, almost as if it was hidden. She frowns as she pulls it out, the bank statement in her pocket feeling as if it is burning into her skin. The surface of the box is smooth and it opens without resistance. Liz’s heart stutters in her chest, the memories of her childhood feeling tainted as she stares at the contents.

Passports, money and visas, are revealed to her, everything Sam would need to disappear, to become someone else. With trembling hands Liz opens one of the passports; her young face stares back at her, in another it is Sam. They both have different identities, false names and credentials. Liz feels bile rise in her throat, panic and disbelief. She rushes to the bathroom, spilling the measly contents of her stomach down the sink. When she looks into the mirror she’s sweating, panting. Her face is pale, black locks of hair stick to her forehead. She is gripping onto the sink, her knuckles threatening to split through the skin.

She stumbles back into the bedroom, the box abandoned on her father’s bed. Her mind is flooded, drowning all rationale thought, logic and fear battling in the tide; _lies_ and deceit and _Sam_. If he was here, alive, with her, he could explain. He would have never put her in danger, risked her life. Fury washes out the tide, the flood, a snarling raging inferno, roaring inside Liz’s mind. What the _Hell_ is going on?

There lays a note amongst the cash, the passports. There is a name, just a name, scrawled across the scrap of paper in an elegant hand. The ink is red. She picks it up.

 _Bill Kershaw_.

Liz frowns, flips the paper to the other side. In the same red ink is a number. She tucks it alongside Tom’s, alongside the bank statement. She scoops up the passports, goes to the wardrobe in search of a bag, a backpack, anything to carry the belongings she will take from her home, from Sam’s home. She will leave tonight. She doubts she’ll return.

Unanswered questions burn holes in Liz’s composure and this discovery; the money, the passports, Bill Kershaw, they will drive Liz to the brink of insanity. She needs to understand, needs to reassure herself of her father’s image, of her own image. The passports are heavy in her hands as she tips them into a bag.

She scours through the rest of the house, searching for anything further, any signs or clues as to what her father was involved in, why he would need to flee. She finds nothing, settles for grabbing his belongings that mean the most to her, the one’s she has and will treasure for her entire life. She will call Aunt June when she leaves, tell her that it was all too much, that she grabbed what she could and left, that the memories are too painful.

At last, when every cupboard has been fossicked through, every draw upturned, Liz sits back on Sam’s bed. Her phone is hot in her hands, slick from where she has been gripping it. The note is crumpled when she removes it from her pocket, the words like blood on the page. Her hands are shaking as she dials the number, heedless of the fact it is three in the morning.

It rings only twice before Liz hears the other line click, the steady breathing of another person, a stranger.

“Yes?” A deep rumble, male, older.

“Hi, um, I’m looking for a Bill Kershaw?”

The answer takes so long to come that Liz believes that it won’t, that they’ve hung up. The voice has changed when it finally comes, more accented, younger. Liz frowns.

“I am sorry; it appears you have the wrong number.”

The line falls dead, but Liz remains with her phone pressed to her face. Her feet are planted on the carpeted floor, shoulders hunched. She doesn’t know how to proceed, doesn’t know what she could _possibly_ do now. She drops her hands so that they swing between her knees.

The hunt will begin tomorrow, the need for answers a part of her being, but the directionless moment she found herself in has eradicated all motivation. She needs a distraction. Tom’s number catches her eye and she sighs.

He answers with a gruff voice, sleep riddled, but in only four rings.

“Hey, sorry that I woke you,” Liz says quietly, “I was just wondering if you were up for that chat?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, the first chapter of She Put Her Scar Upon My Skin! It’s a bit different from Ragged Mile, especially in regards to chapter length. Red’s up next chapter, so don’t fear, I missed him too. I hope you enjoyed the read and feel free to let me know what you think!


	2. How She Changed All My Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve got a lot to say,  
> And I’m scared that you’re gonna slip away,  
> And you, you got this wide eyed gaze,  
> And a smile that you’ll carry through your days.” – Wasted Time, Vance Joy

A car accident; screaming tyres, shattering glass, crumpling metal and then, nothing, silence. They were so common, so _mundane_. It was a death not befitting the unique man that he was. The slow, crawling and devastating spread of cancer would have at least made sense; his love of cigarettes haunting him, like all things people love, a destructive force. A bullet would have been more apt for a man as fierce as him, so drawn to trouble; he would have died laughing, complaining about his lost agility, hopefully with Raymond next to him.

_A car accident_.

The heat slides down his throat, the scotch burning pleasantly on his tongue. It does nothing to numb the throbbing behind his eyes, the ache in his body. _Sam_ , always smiling, always laughing, a champion wielding a knife and _god_ when using a gun, is _dead_. A man that had always made sure Red kept his weapon clean and his mind sharp. They would sit up late into the evening, a crossword and a bottle of scotch between them, bouncing ideas off each other. They’d sit for hours, timing how fast they could take apart, clean and reassemble their weapons. Raymond’s best was a minute-twenty. It had been an easier time, for Sam at least, a time before the fire.

Before _Lizzie_.

Sam had carried Red through the longest and darkest days of his life. A steady presence as he grieved his family, wrenched from him so young, so innocent. Whispering words of advice, keeping him sane as he writhed and thrashed in a sea of sorrow, Sam sat with him in those dark nights. He’d saved Red’s life; tamed the thirst of revenge that left Red so _hungry_ , unfulfilled. They would wait, plan, until they were ready, had everything in place. There were moments when Red thought he’d been driven to insanity, his patience so thin, and rationale nonexistent. Sam had hauled him back by the scruff of the neck, every time. If he hadn’t, the empire of Raymond Reddington would not be the powerful stronghold it is today, the contacts he needs not available. Red still feels as if he never fully repaid the man, especially after the fire.

_After_ Lizzie.

He tilts his head to the ceiling, so high above him, the wooden beams dim in the darkness of night. The scotch slides easily down his throat, the ice clinking in the silence. The glass is cold in his hand anchoring him to the world. Green eyes drift over the dim room; no one had turned the lights on as night fell across the sky, the darkness crawling over the floorboards and up the walls. The world was still, serene. His gaze settles on the figure, peacefully asleep, across from him. He is snoring softly; great gusts of air rushing out of his parted lips as his broad chest billows. His head is tilted to the side, undoubtedly going to result in a sore neck in the morning. A sad smile tugs at Raymond’s lips.

Dembe had walked so quietly into the room, anxious by the news he was burdened with. His footsteps had been laced with trepidation; he could hear it in the way Dembe slowly approached, as if Red was a wounded animal, likely to lash out. It was then that he turned from his seat by the bay window, looking out over the vineyards, the last rays of the sun shimmering over the horizon. He had tilted his head as Dembe sat down before him, a phone and a folder in his hands. His voice had been so soft, apologetic.

He didn’t give over the folder, the photos, until Raymond asked him to, and even then it was with reluctance. Red could still see the blood seeping down Sam’s face, his eyes wide and empty, mouth slack. The car, a mangled mess of metal and glass, splintered and destroyed. He shoved the photographs away, rumpled from his carelessness. Dembe brought him over a scotch, placed the bottle delicately on the table before them. He sat with Raymond for hours, a steady and silent presence, until he drifted off to sleep.

Red hopes that he can be for Dembe all that Sam had been for him; a father figure, a protector, a _friend_. Though, for now, it seems it is Dembe that is carrying Red through the darkness, his support and loyalty unwavering. He is an old soul, subjected to so much pain and displeasure in the first years of his life, what would have felt like an _eternity_ and is still so loyal, so loving.

When Red had found Dembe, huddled in a filthy basement, chained, burned, branded, _tortured_ , he’d barely been breathing, barely alive. His frame had been so fragile, purpled from bruises and slick from puss that oozed from his wounds. Ribs jutted out, looking as if they could tear through the thin parchment of the boy’s skin. His eyes were crusted shut, covered in dirt and grime. Raymond had seen stray dogs in Bali in far better condition. The boy was a mess. So, Red did the only thing that he could; he took Dembe, weak but still so _angry_ , furious, a young boy who had been thrown to the wolves at such a young age. He guided the boy, only fourteen, through the darkness and despair he had been plunged into. Watched him grow, get his first job, celebrate his birthdays. The wide-eyed look of sheer joy, when Red told Dembe he would be attending school in the year of his sixteenth birthday, still filled him with a warmth that could never been squashed. He saw to Dembe’s tutoring, made sure he didn’t feel as if he was lagging behind the other students.

And then with the ending of school came the beginning of university and Dembe _thrived_. He furthered his education, studied a variety of languages, picked up boxing and excelled beyond anything that Raymond could imagine. The next time Red saw Dembe, he held his diploma in hand and a million thank you’s danced on his tongue. Red had never been so proud.

“Dembe,” he calls through the quiet, his voice hoarse from disuse, “you’ll get a sore neck. Go to bed.”

Dreary eyes open, dazed and with a flicker of annoyance, gaze back at Red. A sleepy smile spreads over Dembe’s face and he seems to sink further into his chair, eyes slipping closed once more, ignoring Red. He huffs a laugh, calls Dembe yet again. The younger man rumbles Red’s name in reply, playfully mocking him, before heaving himself from the chair. When he walks past, his tall and bulky frame making even the large room seem small, he rests a hand on Red’s shoulder, squeezes and then releases.

With Dembe’s snoring moved to another room, the house seems empty, large. Red sits in his chair, staring out of the window into the night. Sam’s death has greatly unsettled him, left him rattled. The grief is deadened by alcohol, causes it to be a quiet presence in the tumultuous sea of thoughts that clatter and rage inside Red’s mind. He worries for Lizzie, constantly and without fault, but now even more so. Sam, _Sam_ , had been everything to Lizzie; she will be left adrift without him, lost in a sea of grief, _alone_. Red breathes deeply, his heart steadily pumping in his chest, even now as it aches for all he has lost, for all Lizzie has suffered through, for the chasm he will never be able to cross to reach her. He was a _criminal_ and she, an exciting FBI agent.

He has had her under surveillance, ever since the fire, ever since he dropped her off on Sam’s doorstep, even as the blood leaked down his back, his vision tunnelled and blackened. She had been so frightened that night, so fragile and light in his arms. When Sam opened the door, the light from inside striking over her ash-covered face, she had winced, trembling in Raymond’s arms. Sam had hurriedly pulled them inside, shoving Red onto the couch, jostling his wounds, making him groan in agony. His friend delicately freed the girl from Raymond’s grip; he had her clutched tightly to his chest, her little form was still shaking. Sam placed her on the ground, walked around the sofa and surveyed the desolation, the _ruin_ , of Red’s back, panic flashing through his eyes at the state of it. Red didn’t think that he had the ability to speak, but the words worked their way out of his mouth, clamped shut in agony as it was.

_Tend to the girl, Sam_.

Elizabeth, her new and special name, Sam had told her, was led to the bathroom. Tearstains tracked down her cheeks through the ash, her small hands still clutching her singed plush rabbit. Sam talked to her quietly, soothingly, made her laugh, and pried the bunny from her iron grip. He carefully undressed her, throwing the scorched and charred clothing into the corner, to be disposed of before she saw them the next morning. The water of the shower spurted to life as Sam checked Lizzie for injuries, her tiny body, only four years old, unmarked, unblemished, except for the ghastly burn on her right palm, oozing blood. Red doesn’t know how he managed his way to the bathroom to observe them, to watch over Lizzie, the running water of the shower his only guide as his vision blurred and failed. Sam was under the water, fully clothed, washing the ash and soot from Lizzie’s hair. She stared at Red as he slumped on the doorway, a wavering smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. It was the last thing Red saw before his body gave in and he succumbed to darkness.

He’d left Lizzie in Sam’s care, knowing that she could be no safer than with him. Red had gone into hiding to literally lick his wounds. The rehabilitation for the chaos of his back, charred and scorched tissue, had taken months; he had been in no condition to look after an injured and traumatised young girl. So, he had her tracked, made contact with Sam as he discreetly as he could manage. Kept her safe with the resources he had at his disposal. Watched her grow and succeed under Sam’s care, received photos of her from her birthday, of her graduations and school achievements. He watched her grow and flourish and she didn’t even know his name, the history they shared. He kept his distance, kept her safe.

Nonetheless, she was and always would be his second chance; his salvation from darkness.

Dembe wakes him from his drink induced slumber in the morning, a plate of scrambled eggs in one hand. Red’s stomach roils and writhes at the thought of eating. The stern look he receives, he does not appreciate. He looks at the plate, the lumpy yellow eggs, disdain morphing his features.

“You must eat, Raymond,” Dembe implores, placing the plate on the coffee table, the utensils beside it. Red frowns at him, but picks up the fork, shovelling in a mouthful and forcing himself to swallow. Dembe nods approvingly and procures a steaming mug of coffee, puts it down on the coaster Raymond pushes over to him. They’re borrowing the house from a French insurance-broker, whilst he is off holidaying in the Alps. Philippe is _extremely_ cautious about marking his furniture, providing coasters at every coffee and dining table within the house. He’d be positively furious with Red if he was to find a new mark.

Red shifts in his seat, quickly glancing down to see that he is still fully dressed, the jacket of his suit rumpled and his tie loose around his neck. He straightens, fixing his tie and tugging at the lapels, trying to make himself somewhat presentable. Dembe huffs a laugh from the other side of the table, shaking his head as he practically inhales his own breakfast. Red merely scowls at him, returning to his meal, thoughts drifting to Sam, Lizzie.

“Once you’re done,” he begins, gaining Dembe’s attention, “ready the car, please. We have business to attend to.”

And distractions to make, he hopes, trying to rid the image of Sam’s bleeding body from his mind, to brush off the nightmares of the fire that plagued him through the night.

They travel, from continent to continent, state to state, both so accustomed to it. Sleep on the plane is easily had, keeping the threat of jetlag at bay. Red is wined and dined in the most luxurious of restaurants, and then hunted and shot at in dingy warehouses. He donates to charities, causes for animals and children, before driving to the harbour to make millions in illegal arms and drug trades. He is always dressed impeccably, should he be visiting the richest, and most corrupt, of British Politicians, or an asset in an insane asylum; his suits so perfectly tailored for tea and then torture.

Dembe is by his side throughout it all; the most cherished bodyguard the world has seen.

After a rather long day involving a particularly crooked dealing with two Syrian mobsters, who are now dead and hopefully dumped in the Mekong, Red and Dembe sip on their beers in silence. The hustle of Ho Chi Minh City can be heard from below; the hum of scooters, the crowing of roosters, the shouts and bargaining of the locals. Red sits with his vest undone, sleeves rolled up, the humid breeze wafting over him, lulling him into a sense of comfort. He briefly shuts his eyes, breathes deeply.

It has been three weeks since Sam’s death.

His tail on Lizzie has been quiet, only relaying to Dembe that she has not left her apartment, orders takeout, but never empties her trash. Red feels worry work its way through his core; she is grieving, in pain and has _no one_. Her fiancé, Nick, is weak, spineless, would never go to her if she had told him not to, even if she _needed_ him. Red knew that Lizzie could be withdrawn, a trait she has had since the day she was left with Sam and Nick has never been willing to accept that. So Red contacted the tail directly, early into the second week, told him of a lovely little Chinese restaurant, Wing Yee. He arranged for a box of food to be taken to Lizzie, dropped at her doorstep.

He hopes she enjoyed it.

“Keen,” Dembe says, catching Red’s attention. He snaps his head over to where his friend is sitting, phone in hand, “he initiated contact with Elizabeth today.”

Red places his beer on the ground by his chair, sits straighter and gazes out the window and down onto the street below. Food carts are pushed noisily along the street, heedless of the prayer baskets laid out to the Gods on the ground. The incense, bamboo shoots, food, are all crushed by the relentless wheels, one after the other. Red looks back to Dembe, chewing on the inside of his lip.

“That wasn’t an order I gave.”

Dembe nods his head, looking back down to the phone. He would have received photos of Lizzie, new information on how she is faring, specifically in regards to Sam’s death. Red’s throat suddenly feels dry. He picks up his beer, takes a long drink. Waits for Dembe to say more, to elaborate on what happened, on Tom’s rogue behaviour.

“She... seemed happy throughout the contact, Raymond,” he says softly, offering the phone over the space that separates them. Red reaches for it; dread corroding his veins. The phone is hot from Dembe’s grip, the screen dark.

He presses the middle button and there she is. Red’s heart drops in his chest; she looks ill. Her skin is sickly and pale, her eyes dim and framed by a purple so dark it looks black. She’s dropped weight, her clothes hanging from her frame as if they’re two sizes too big for her. Her cheekbones and jaw are sharp, sharper than they have ever been. At least her hair is clean; shiny, brown and curling around her shoulders. Red’s thumb slides along the screen, over her face.

In the next image she is sitting across from Keen, with a shy smile on her lips as she stirs at her coffee. The next she is laughing. In the last, Keen is handing her a slip of paper, a phone number clearly written across it. Red returns the phone to Dembe, guilt swirling through his gut. He looks back out the window; her haunted eyes burned into his retinas.

“Contact Keen,” he orders, voice gruff, “make it known that any further transgressions and his contract will be terminated. If she contacts him, he must alert us immediately. The relationship must remain entirely platonic.”

Dembe nods his head in silence and as he begins to retreat into the living room to conduct his business, a mobile phone starts to ring. Red turns in his chair, recognising that particular tone; a specific number logged into ever advancing phones. They always keep it on them; always keep it charged, a number, a means of contact, for after the fire. _Sam’s phone_.

The ringing grows louder as Dembe fossicks through their bags, until he _finally_ pulls it free of the mountains of paperwork and passports. He tosses it to Reddington, who snatches it out of the air with shaky hands. He stares at the number, unknown to him, a million possibilities screaming through his mind, vociferous in their intensity. Sam was clever, seemingly indestructible, it wouldn’t be impossible that he would fake his death. It wouldn’t be impossible that he would go this long without telling Red, he could be so stubborn in his ways.

He swipes to answer the phone, presses the speaker to his ear. Breaths, ragged, can be heard from the other end, and Red takes a moment to compose himself, to wait for the silence to be broken. It drags on too long.

“Yes?”

And then they speak and Red’s hearts seizes in his chest because it’s _her_ , Lizzie. It could be no one else. Her voice is so soft, so unsure as she asks for a man that doesn’t exist, never did. It’s shaky, nervous and Red briefly considers the time it must be over in America; the earliest of hours. She must be in Nebraska, sitting in Sam’s house, sorting through his things, alone. He grips the phone unnecessarily tight, pushing it harder against his face, wishing he was closer, could comfort her in her grief. He can feel the weight of Dembe’s gaze, realises that he hasn’t answered, realises that he _can’t_. Dembe reaches for the phone and after a moment of hesitation he passes it over.

“I am sorry; it appears you have the wrong number,” Dembe says quietly before ending the call. He looks to Raymond, frozen in his chair as he is. He nods his head and watches as Dembe crushes the phone beneath his shoe. The noise is so _loud_ , the cracking and splitting of the screen making Red inwardly wince. He lets out a shaky breath, standing and making his way to the bar. His beer is forgotten, warming on the ground by his chair, he needs something _stronger_.

Dembe disappears again, to finish what he never got started in regards to Tom Keen. Confliction rises within Red, the disobedience of his employee, unnerving. Yet, Lizzie looked happier in the photographs, as if the immense grief that had dropped her weight, paled her skin, was lifted, if only for a moment. Keen had offered her a distraction, a way back into the world, to normality. It had been good for her, that much was obvious. There had been no reason or need for Keen to give her his number, a distraction for her would have been enough, prolonged contact was dangerous. Red squeezes his eyes shut, if the relationship develops to nothing further, it will be fine. He breathes raggedly through his mouth. If it becomes something more than platonic, he’ll intervene.

They travel again, not staying in one place longer than three nights. Red drinks, more so than he usually does, still shaken by Lizzie’s voice. Dembe watches him, eyes filled with concern, but never says anything, just removes the empty scotch bottles, washes up the glasses. Red sleeps rarely; the night of the fire infects his dreams, distorts them into nightmares. Sam burns, Lizzie burns and Red can’t _save_ them.

Deals are made, weapons sold, people whisked away and money deposited in countless off shore and untraceable bank accounts. Red meets with contacts, eliminates competition. He sleeps with women, drinks with men. He shoots and he stabs, fights and claws his way through the criminal underworld, like always. He long ago succumbed to the monster within, unleashing it against the world; Raymond Reddington, the Concierge of Crime.

Throughout it all, a steady mantra burns in the back of his mind, a prayer, unrelenting.

_Lizzie_.

She has made contact with Keen, met with him to have coffee. Her skin has returned to a healthier shade, but she is still too thin and her eyes, her eyes are _grim_ , grave. Sleep escapes her, obvious by the now stained purple beneath them and as they spread, Red’s worry grows with them. Apprehension is thick in his bloodstream whenever Dembe comes to him with an update. They’re growing closer, Lizzie and Keen, as she drifts from Nick. Red doesn’t know if he should be thankful for it. Nick is vampiric in nature; sucks the soul and energy from Lizzie. But Keen, Keen is dangerous, compromised. Raymond has never felt so _powerless_.

The humid, polluted, air of Singapore wafts over him from where he sits. The balcony looks over the city; taxi’s and vans racing by below him, just visible through the canopies of the trees. He is still dressed in his suit, fiddling with his cuffs as Dembe orders them food. Raymond won’t eat, but Dembe needs to. The sound of children, splashing in the pool below, can be heard even over the roar of the traffic and Red smiles at their innocence, their weightlessness.

When Dembe returns, his expression is grave, as it had been all day. He was always quiet as they conducted business; his presence paired with Red’s enough to silence those who would cause them difficulty. Red does the talking, Dembe provides the brute strength. And once they are done, they head to the car, Dembe driving. He would usually smile and chat, mentioning the things he took note of while Red’s attention was elsewhere. Today he drove in a stony silence; grip tight on the steering wheel and rarely looking in the rear-view mirror to meet Red’s eyes.

It would take time, but by the end of the night Dembe would say what was on his mind, if only to get some peaceful sleep. So Red sits in silence with him, contemplating as he waits. There is only one topic that could drive Dembe to such uneasiness; Lizzie. It has Red gnawing on the inside of his lip, fingers idly tapping rhythms on his thigh. His eyes focus out over the skyline, seeing nothing as he waits.

There food is brought to them, and Red can’t help but smile at the way Dembe piles his plate. Even when fighting internal conflict, the younger man still has an appetite, perhaps even more so. Red makes no move to have any of the tapas before them, but Dembe makes him a plate anyway, nodding at him once before focusing back onto his own feast. Red’s fingers continue tapping.

He’d known that the incessant movement, the fidgetiness of his fingers, would push Dembe to the brink. Red meets his gaze as Dembe grabs at his fingers, halting their movement. He looks disapproving, as if he knows that Raymond is pushing him, wanting answers to questions he hasn’t asked. His brown eyes, so dark and wide are piercing as they stare and Red feels his heart rate spark. Dembe looks scared.

“She’s ended her relationship with Nick,” he murmurs, releasing Red’s fingers and reaching into his pocket to retrieve the phone. Red leans forward, elbows on his knees and reaches for his scotch. He drains the glass. There is more.

“Did Keen come by this information?” He asks, even though he knows that Tom holds no loyalty now, is hunting and tracking Lizzie for his own purposes, desires. The confirmation is in the shake of Dembe’s head, the tension around his eyes.

“The extra tail, you had placed on them both, sent the information,” he begins, releasing a sigh as he passes the phone, “and photos.”

Lizzie is practically melded into Keen, her lips captured by his, his hands roaming her thin body. Red grits his teeth, feels as if his molars might shatter as he stares. _Lizzie_ , pure and innocent is so vulnerable in her current state. The phone in Red’s hand begins to tremble, Keen’s treachery flaring rage within, hot and furious. He wouldn’t risk this, unless he thought he was protected, knew that Red wouldn’t be able to come after him. Red looks at the way Lizzie grasped his waist, fingers digging into his skin. Maybe Keen thought her love was enough, but that was too risky. He wasn’t aware of Red’s connection with her, unless his new employer had information. Keen had to have a new employer, an employer that had painted a target on Lizzie’s back, left her open to manipulation from a man that was being paid to be with her, to _sleep_ with her. She doesn’t know, is so _alone_.

The chair scrapes along the ground as Red stands, Dembe following him. He looks out over Singapore, thoughts of Sam clouding his mind. If he knew that Red had let something go this far, endangered Lizzie both physically and emotionally they way he had, he would have _killed_ him and Raymond would have let him. Dembe slips the phone out of his hand, puts it back into his pocket, and waits for instructions.

Red sucks a breath through his clenched teeth, hears it whistle as it whisks through the crevices and cracks. She is in danger, unaware, exposed. Flames flash across his eyes, Lizzie staring back at him as smoke wafts around her, so young and afraid. Her hands reach out for him, fingers tiny and grasping as he lifts her into his arms. He would keep her safe.

“Dembe,” he says, turning to his friend, grim determination settling over his features, “It is time to initiate the Blacklist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N; Chapter Two done and dusted. Three is underway, things start to pick up from there. I hope you’re enjoying the read so far!


	3. Cold Smoke Seeping Out Of Colder Throats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll wrap up my bones,  
> And leave them,  
> Out of this home,  
> Out on the Road” – Still, Daughter
> 
> Trigger Warning; Brief mentions of domestic abuse.

Two months.

Two months since she discovered the bank statement, the passports, the _lies_.

Two months and three weeks.

Sam has been dead for two months and three weeks.

Liz sits on her bed, rubbing at her finger where Nick’s engagement ring once resided, now only a pale strip of skin. He’d insisted that she wore it, even if she hadn’t fully decided on her decision, had said that it looked beautiful; she always felt like it was a shackle, heavy and cold. And now, it sits next to her, making a dent in the quilt. She doesn’t know what to do with it.

She doesn’t regret her choice, ending her relationship; even as Nick raged and yelled at her, furious and out of control. Liz had stayed firm through the onslaught, only rubbing at her scar once before forcing her hands behind her back, away from his seething gaze. He’d accused her of cheating; she’d vehemently denied his claims. The look of disgust he had thrown at her as he stormed out of her apartment, the door shaking on its hinges in his wake, dismissed any doubts she had.

He doesn’t need to know that she went to Tom an hour after, to his apartment. She had broken down then, the emotional tide of the previous months sweeping her away in a sea of tears and misery. His arms had wrapped around her, held her secure as she wept. He whispered to her, tucked into her side as she was. When she eventually emerged from her misery, he was before her with a beer and had ordered them some Chinese, Wing Yee’s, their favourite. They sat together for the whole night, eating and chatting. It was _relaxing_ and Liz felt like it was all too soon before she had to leave to go home.

They shared their first kiss on his doorstep. It was intense, fuelled by emotion. Liz was the one to pull away first, her breath short. She didn’t want to rush anything, they had time. They could wait. The wind was cold against her skin as she walked to her car, Tom watching her from his door.

When she arrives home, it is in the same state she left it. Papers are strewn across her small dining table, stuck against the walls. Everything she found in Sam’s house, her _home_ , documents and bank statements, everything that _didn’t make sense_. The passports are spread over the floor, a jumbled heap. Amongst the mess, the words, account numbers, photos of Sam, amongst the _confusion_ , the name is a beacon, the red ink, so bright in the dim, darkened room. Liz can feel it, a hot burn in her skin, even when she’s in her bedroom, the bathroom, where the words are hidden from her.

_Bill Kershaw_.

She stares at it all, for hours on end, her mind analysing, making connections, linking. She is yet to come up with a solution. The lack of knowledge, of understanding gnaws away at her like a disease; corroding her arteries, slowing her mind. It weakens her resolve, sloughs her motivation. Her focus wavers as she scours through Sam’s documents, the grief of her father so overwhelming, the questions she now has for him turning her stomach to lead. As the tears well in her eyes, the fire in her stomach rages. She needs _answers_ and to get them, she needs help, information, leads. Her eyes drift to the faked passports, an idea screaming and tearing at her mind the longer she stares, a hurricane of thoughts, weighing pros and cons with each beat of her heart.

She finds herself logging into her Quantico account, her laptop screen the only illumination in the dark. It casts a ghastly blue over the white papers plastered across the walls. The blank faces of her and her father staring up at her from the floor, half cast in shadow. Liz returns her gaze to the screen, begins scrolling. Mug-shots stare back at her, the most cunning of criminals still flaunting the law as wanted fugitives, to those who did not escape arrest, either still gaoled, or on parole. She ignores the Top Ten; she won’t find anything there, doesn’t stand a chance against the sadists and psychopaths that fight for their positions as if it’s a popularity contest. She looks for those accused of identity theft, fraudulence, counterfeit of passports, anything that could help her track down the person responsible for her young image on an illegal document. Her shoulders are hunched, face too close to the screen, eyes squinted as she scans.

And then, after hours, a name; a charge of identity theft and possession of counterfeit documents appears before her. A scraggly bearded man, with beady brown eyes and crooked teeth stares back at her. His face is sallow, gaunt. Liz reads his bio, finds that he is once again out and roaming the streets, on parole.

_Alexander Slattery_.

She researches him further, combs through the details of his life. It is implied within what the FBI has written that Slattery has ties to larger criminals, though his crimes were petty at best to those he was supposedly affiliated with. Liz stares at his profile, uses her clearance to acquire his location, address. He is small in stature, seedy and sleazy, he looks unhealthy and _weak_. Liz reads and reads through the night, profiling and assessing this criminal to the best of her abilities. There is nothing that implies he has been involved in violence, not even possession of weapons, but Liz knows that this man has the potential to turn dangerous. She slams her laptop closed, the light of dawn creeping through closed curtains. Anyone could be dangerous under certain circumstances.

Liz knows she should sleep, rest and wait and plot. Her body aches with a weariness that slows her movements, even as her mind thrums with energy with this new information and drives her to the coffee machine. The liquid that fills the mug she shoves beneath it is black, rocket fuel, seething hot and aromatic. Liz breaths deeply, sliding her service weapon into the back of her jeans. A twinge in her chest the only recognition of the boundaries she is pushing, the threat to her career she is making. Her teeth clench as the cool metal presses against her back, she needs _answers_. The red ink blares at her from across the room; the two words, an unknown name, holding so much weight. Liz skulls her scolding coffee, ignores the burn of her tongue, before tossing the mug carelessly into the sink and leaving her apartment, car keys hanging between her fingers.

The GPS on her phone is demanding; a monotonous voice, droning instructions until Liz misses a turn and then it shrieks in urgency. She grits her teeth, deriving grim amusement from the machine mispronouncing street names as she manoeuvres a U-turn. Her fingers grip the wheel, left leg bouncing until she has to change gear, slamming the clutch with unnecessary force. The ride is lurching, reeling, the occasional squeal of tyres as Liz accelerates. She’s nervous, heart thrumming in her chest, her weapon digging into her back.

Slattery lives to the East of the city, in a small neighbourhood. Maple trees line the footpath, hedges line fences. Children trek through the street, school bags slung over their shoulders as they chatter and laugh, forgetting for the moment that their education awaits them, hours of being locked in a classroom, the summer holidays now only a distant memory. The houses are cosy, on large blocks, made of logs, shingled or the deep red of bricks that demands attention, a presences amongst all the others. It’s quaint, quiet, and Liz feels exposed.

She parks her car on the curb, opposite Slattery’s address. The house is small, pale brick with a porch littered with children toys; bikes, basketballs, tennis rackets and Frisbees. Weeds linger throughout the front garden, green and invisible, lost in the rest of the vegetation; an overgrown garden to be certain, not derelict. A soccer-goal is set up on the lawn, a lone child, a girl, racing towards it with a ball, puffs of dust clouding about her feet as she runs. Her pigtails bounce, tiny leg kicking furiously towards the goal. A cheer erupts from her tiny frame as the net embraces the ball, her arms thrown up in triumph. Liz smiles, slumping in her seat slightly, her mind settling, if only for a moment, until the front door is cracked open and Slattery steps onto the porch.

Except, it doesn’t look like Alexander Slattery at all; he’d looked unhealthy in his mug-shot; skin pale, face so thin and wasted. He is plump now, sporting a thick beard and several tattoos on his forearms. And he is smiling, not the disgruntled face of a man caught for his sins, but smiling as he looks upon his daughter, gathering her up into his arms and planting a kiss on her cheek.

Liz tilts her head upwards, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes.

She misses Sam.

When Liz has composed herself, swallowed the choking lump lodged in her throat, stilled the grief and distress that slither through her being, Slattery is belting his daughter up in his car. She’s squirming in her seat and he is laughing at her, chatting animatedly with her as she points at the soccer ball. Slattery scoops it up off the ground, presses it gently to her chest before briefly brushing off her dusty uniform before firmly closing the door and sliding into the driver’s seat. Liz puts her foot on the clutch, shifts into gear and follows Slattery down the street.

Following him is easier than Liz had expected, though tedious and dull. He drops his daughter off at school, walks her in holding her hand. Liz watches from her car as the girl excitedly tugs at his hand, schoolbag more like a shell, her little arms, legs and head protruding from behind it like a turtle. When Slattery returns, they traverse off to the shops, Liz following several cars behind, music turned down for better focus. Waiting for him to return is excruciating, allows Liz time to think on what she is actually doing, allows her to realise that she has no _plan_. She needs to talk with him, interrogate him, and get him to give her names, contacts, _anything_ that could possibly lead her to the person that made the fake passports. Not knowing how to approach him without the protection of her badge or FBI clearance is unnerving. Her head thuds against the back of her seat, feeling utterly useless. She almost misses Slattery as he emerges from the sliding doors, trolley full and dragging to one side, as they always do. Liz watches as he mechanically unloads his cargo, a man with no worries about being tracked. She waits until he passes over a speedbump and a crossing before reversing and following.

The rest of the day passes agonisingly slow; Liz fights off the drowsiness that plagues her, ignores the rumble and fatigue of her neglected body as Slattery goes through his daily routine. He does nothing worthy of suspicion; his parole officer would be proud, even as it drives Liz to further feelings of guilt and remorse. He is just a man, trying to move on in his life, forget his past. It is not until after he has picked up his daughter, greeted his wife when she arrives home from work, eats dinner and puts his daughter to bed that Slattery is on the move once more.

A haze falls over the city as he drives, Liz a close tail behind him, her car lights reflecting off the black boot of his own vehicle. The streetlights have already sputtered to life as they pass below them, illuminating pedestrians walking their dogs, the animals’ tails wagging so furiously, so excited to be out, away from their locked houses and usual smells. The children have all returned from school, are hidden within their houses. The footpaths are almost bare, but cars still trundle up and down the roads, routinely stopping as red blares down at them, fierce and unquestionable, until they shift to green and they’re all off again.

Slattery drives them deep into the city, as the nightlife comes alive. Men, boys, wander down the streets in packs, some well dressed and handsome, splitting when another is walking in the opposite direction while others are daggy and sleazy, spewing heinous comments to the women unlucky enough to pass them. The women, girls, move in packs as well, hanging from their friends or boyfriends as they struggle down the street in heels that cause their feet to ache, calves to shake. The music thumps through the thin walls of the night clubs, the bright and colourful lights from within occasionally spilling into the street as the door opens to admit more patrons, like the maws of a roaring beast. Liz feels tired even looking at the people that litter the street, their gates unsteady as the alcohol takes effect.

Slattery pulls into an underground garage, a few cars ahead of Liz and she groans aloud at the exorbitant price of parking, even as she descends underground with him. The lot is packed, cars jammed into the confines of the dreary concrete walls like metal sardines. Her eyes scan over the vehicles, her heart thumping in her chest a she loses sight of her target. She swings into a park, leaping out of her car and hastily locking it as she peers through the gaps in the cars she is surrounded by. A breath gusts out of her as she spots Slattery weaving through the traffic, past the great stone pillars. Her footsteps are light as she tracks him, breath seeming so loud in the silence; the thudding bass of the nightclubs only a distant vibration.

They move out onto the street and Liz has to focus on not losing Slattery in the midst of the nightlife that surrounded them. He is easy to spot, not dressed to impress like the others, his greying hair a beacon in the sea of youth. Liz follows from afar, until a group of kids stumble out onto the street, laughing and shouting, jostling those who are unlucky enough to be walking past. That is when Slattery disappears; Liz catching a glimpse of him as he turns sharply into an alley, before a young girl trips into her, apologising profusely, words slurred. Liz just nods, pushing her aside and hurriedly heading in Slattery’s direction.

When she comes to stand at the mouth of the alley, all of her instincts scream and riot in her mind for her to _turn around_ , to _go back_. It is dark, shadowed, _dangerous_. The smell of urine and trash waft on the wind, the music enclosed in grimy walls, a muffled rumble. Liz hesitates, the cool metal of her gun now searing into her skin. She takes a shaky step forwards, can hear Sam in the back of her mind, his tone so stern and protective. Another step, lips pressed closed so as not to make noise. Her eyes soon adjust to the shadow, futile as it is; the darkness seemingly impenetrable. She doesn’t want to draw her weapon, even though her fingers itch. If Slattery saw her, he’d bolt. If _anyone_ saw her, they’d bolt.

The alley has engulfed her now, swallowed her from the sight of the individuals rambling along the street. In the dimness she can see a door, an exit to one of the night clubs, a rusty and flimsy staircase leading to it. She sucks in a breath as she passes the skip, filled with God knows what, the stench unbearable, causing her eyes to water. In this moment of weakness, a shadow lurches from the dark and slams Liz into the unyielding brick of the nightclub walls. The assailant is strong, grabbing her from behind, fingers like claws on Liz’s wrists, palm like leather as it slams over her mouth.

“Why’d you have to follow me here?” Slattery moans, desperate and saddened as he presses Liz against the wall. Terror riddles her body as she feels her weapon shift; his hands slide it out of the waistband of her jeans. She throws her head back; using all the leverage she can muster, hears a sickening crunch as she collides with Slattery’s nose, and feels the slickness of blood on her shoulder blades as it drips down her back. He doesn’t release his hold, grips tighter if anything, smacks her face against the wall. Liz’s vision blurs. Her limbs are heavy as Slattery drops her to the ground, palms grazing on the filthy floor as she catches herself. Distantly she can hear Slattery murmuring behind her, the shift of his weight before he lashes forward, smacking the butt of her gun into the side of her head. The darkness of the alley becomes all consuming.

She wakes, groggy and groaning, propped up against the skip and a menacing man crouched before her; dressed all in black, tattoos covering his knuckles, doing nothing to conceal the scabs that crust them, and a neck as thick as Liz’s thigh. He’s staring at her intently, one hand on her shoulder as he steadies her, the other proffering a bottle of water towards her. She looks back up at him, and he cracks a small smile, murmuring words of encouragement Liz is not able to decipher over the thudding in her head, the bass of the music inside. She takes the water gratefully, sipping carefully; her lips are split, swollen, bleeding. She can feel blood sluggishly sliding down her body; a wound to the back of her head from being pistol whipped, a cut above her brow from being slammed into the wall. The swelling pulls tight at her skin. Her weapon is gone, in the hands of a known criminal, and with it, most likely her future at the FBI. Liz swallows the vomit, bile, which rises in her throat. The man waves a hand in front of her face, her eyes follow the movement.

“My boss wants to see you,” he rumbles quietly, tugging her to her feet gently. He points to the corner of the alley, where the exit to the club is. A security camera blinks red at them, and Liz hangs her head. “He wants to know why you were following Slattery.”

Liz says nothing, follows, who she assumes is a bouncer or a bodyguard, into the blaring lights and music of the club. They dart through the crowds, the sea of people splitting for the burly looking man, who practically carries Liz up the stairs, much to her humiliation. The floor is sticky beneath her feet, spilt drinks and glass litter the floor. Liz flexes her shoulders, feels the texture of blood slide between them and grimaces. The bouncer leads her up some stairs, past scantily clad women and drunk, groping men. The pungent smell of cigarettes burn her nostrils and she briefly thinks of Sam, how frightened, how disappointed, he would be in her.

A heavy door, steel and painted red, cracks open and Liz is ushered through, eyes squinty in the haze of smoke and dim lighting. The interior is red; red leather, red walls, the reflection making it seem as if the lighting is red too. TV’s line the walls, sports channels, music channels, Playboy, flickering over the screens, a jumble of noise and confusion. The room is large, filled with leather couches, a bar running along the back wall, so much alcohol piled onto the shelves that they bend under the weight. Ash trays litter the tables, accompanied by drink coasters and bowls of nuts. There are no windows, no other exits, just the one door in and out. Liz tenses, feels the grip on her arm tighten.

There are no other women in the room, only men, dressed all in black, smoking and laughing. They lounge on the couches, talking over the ruckus of the TV’s, the music, each other. Drinks warm in their hands, forgotten, the men enraptured as they are by the stories the others are telling; the banks they have robbed, drug dealings they have done, people they have fought, women they’ve fucked. Liz can see, strapped to those who have shed their jackets in the stifling heat of the room, holsters and guns, glinting threateningly. They’re thugs, _criminals_. The vulnerability, the fear, adrenaline, that gathers in her gut is so great that she forgets about the throbbing mess that her face currently is, the slow drip of blood onto the already red carpet.

A man, young, tanned, with an _awful_ goatee and brown hair, sits by the bar. He is seemingly inconspicuous, nothing of note, but the other men gravitate towards him, grovel for his attention, approval. He smiles cockily at them, laughs and jokes, sips at his beer, indulges them in his presence. Liz recognises the leader immediately, the way he sits with his legs spread apart, gun resting on the bar, the looming presence of his bodyguards next to him. Gold glints on his fingers, across his neck. The barmen caters to his needs above everyone else, his drink is never empty and never warm. His eyes, sharp and unkind flicker over to where Liz is frozen and the room seems to fall quiet when he stands.

When he walks Liz can see that he has a lithe figure, agile, lacks the brute strength of the men that he employs. He sweeps his arm towards the lounge and Liz is led towards it by the bouncer still clutching her arm, before he finally releases her. She notes that he scooped his weapon off the bar and that it now dangles from between his lax fingers. Liz takes a seat without complaint, wipes at the blood that drips into her eye, the back of her hand coming away from her skin the colour of rust. A drink is slid in front of her, the man that had retrieved her pushing it towards her. She manages to smile at him in gratitude before he takes a step back, melds back into the darkness and silence with the other men as his employer strides towards her.

He stands with his pelvis thrust towards her, legs spread apart, teeth bared into a smile and hands on his hips, gun trapped between his palm and trousers. Liz can see the way his eyes flicker over her body, has to suppress a shudder at his revolting expression. When he takes a step towards her though, she can’t help but shrink away from him, push herself into the leather cushions of the couch. He lets out a sharp bark of laughter, halting his advance towards her, stands straighter before his face falls serious, grave.  
“Who are you?” His voice is laced with authority, accented.

Liz answers immediately, knows that she is carrying no identification. That as good as they may think they are, as frightening and menacing as believe themselves to be, they really have no idea who she is, what her motives are.

“Emma Lang.”

He stays quiet, watches her warily, as do the other men, Liz can feel their eyes lingering on her, assessing the truth in her statement. No one speaks up. The rumpus of the music below does not lessen, even as the night crawls into morning.

“Fyodor,” is his response, thrusting a hand out towards her to shake, “this is my establishment.”

Liz hesitantly takes his hand with hers, crusted with blood as it is. He doesn’t seem to mind, just smiles at her before sliding the gun into a holster at his side. The other men shift restlessly around her, the attention unwavering between the pair.

“I need to know why you were following my man, Slattery?” He asks, pointing to another TV, the security camera feeds, “we saw him kick your ass, and he isn’t usually a violent man. Why were you following him?”

Again all eyes seem to swivel in her direction, and Liz realises, with such clarity, that the position she is currently in, the vulnerability, may give her the chance to manipulate these men. They see her as a weak and beaten woman, alone and scared. She almost scoffs at their presumption. Indignation swells through her, knowing that if she had been at her best, her body nourished and kept as the well-honed weapon that it is, she would not be the one bleeding and bruising from such an altercation with Slattery. With the ache of her body comes the flood of regret; she should have cared for herself better.

“I need help,” she croaks, staring up into Fyodor’s dark eyes. His features seem to soften as he looks down at her, posture slackening. Liz gnaws on her bottom lip, looking down to the floor, hunching her shoulders and clutching her hands together.

“What could Slattery possibly have helped you with?” Someone asks from the crowd, a huff of amusement following the question. Fyodor spins around, pins the man with a glare, opens his mouth to admonish him, but Liz cuts him off, her voice shaky, teary.

“I need to get out of the country, a new identity” she whispers, looking up once more, pleased by the tears that spill down her cheeks, ignores that they were the sourced from grief, thoughts of Sam almost clouding her mind. She wipes at them roughly, smearing the dried blood further over her face. “I searched through the FBI website; found that Slattery had been arrested for counterfeit passports.”

Liz feels the tension in the room rise, notices the crease of Fyodor’s brow as he turns to the barmen, who hurries over with a fresh beer. He takes a long drink, still gazing at her in puzzlement, uncertainty.

“Why would you need to flee the country?” He sounds curious now, and the surrounding men bob their heads in agreement, looking like a circle of pigeons.

“My... my husband _beats_ me,” she whimpers into her hands, listening to the murmurs of concern that flow around her, “I _tried_ to leave him, but he keeps hunting me down. He said... he said that if I try and leave again he’ll _kill me_. Please, please I’m begging you, you have to help me!”

The men shift uncomfortably and wait for Fyodor’s response. When he orders them to leave, his voice a sharp bark, they scurry to obey, abandoning their drinks and seats, filing out the door until the room is empty. Fyodor sits across from her, nursing his beer, legs spread open once more. They sit in silence, Liz watching him warily, until a grim smile spreads across his face.

“There is nothing I hate more than wife beaters,” he growls, rolling his shoulders, “and if you’d be willing to give me a name, I could have it arranged that this man never touches or speaks to you again.”

Liz knows that she visibly blanches at his request. Even if it’s all false, fictional, a _lie_ , the thought that she could have such a power, that this man would so willingly arrange a death for her, is sickening. She quickly shakes her head, hoping not to offend him, relaxing slightly when she looks back to him to find him laughing quietly and shaking his head.

“If you say so,” he responds, leaning forwards now, arms braced on his knees and beer trapped between his palms. “I have a contact that may be able to help you. It’s only a number; one that I’m not even sure still works. If you’re able to get through, they’ll be able to help you out, give you another number most likely. They’ll probably do a background check on you. This bloke is all for security.”

Liz thanks him quietly as the bartender, who had been lingering by the bar, comes over with a pen and a card. Fyodor scrawls a number onto it, writing messy and the ink blotching across the page. Liz takes it from him with a smile.

“You’ll need a hell of a lot of funds though,” he says, his tone one of humour, “Red doesn’t sell anything cheaply.”

She looks up at him, frowning.

“Red?”

Fyodor grins at her, standing and leading her to the door. She walks forward, the throbbing in her face pronouncing itself as the adrenaline ebbs away. The thunder of the music below is still relentless and Liz abhors the thought that she’ll have to navigate her way through stumbling drunks.

“His name’s Raymond Reddington,” Fyodor explains, guiding her out the door and leaning on the frame, “also known as Red. He’s the best in the business, the _Concierge of Crime_. He’ll be able to get you out of the country in a matter of hours after you’ve made contact, if he wants to. And you’re in luck; I heard he just landed in America.”

Liz smiles at him, even as cold dread slithers down her spine. Fyodor bids her farewell, oblivious to the paleness of her skin, the tremble in her fingertips. She spins away when the door clicks closed, breathing heavily as she hurries through the nightclub and out onto the street.

She could stop now, burn the passports, the bank statements, try and _forget_ everything that she had found. This is too dangerous now; Liz is getting in too deep, threatening her career and life in the process. She grits her teeth, the constant bite of curiosity and the desire to _understand_ over the past few months gnawing at her core. Answers, she needs _answers_ , is willing to do whatever it takes to get them.

She takes a shaky breath, closes her eyes briefly.

_The Concierge of Crime_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Our two favourites finally meet in the next, which is currently underway and should be up in a few days or so if everything goes well. Please let me know what you think, feedback is always welcome! Thank you for reading!


	4. Caught In A Waking Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You walk along the stream,  
> Your head caught in a waking dream,  
> Your protector’s coming home.” – Your protector, Fleet Foxes

It takes her days to dredge up the courage to call the number. She sits in her apartment, the curtains still drawn and the mayhem of paperwork surrounding her, flicking the card back and forth between her fingers. She has it memorised now, the numbers seemingly burned to the back of her eyelids. It is as if it has a _presence_ ; Liz knows where it is at all times, sitting on her coffee table, hidden under her pillow, she can feel it, her contact for the Concierge of Crime, _Raymond Reddington_ , Number Four on the Most Wanted List.

She has researched him, scrolled through FBI files, gathering information that her clearance allows her. Reddington had attended the Naval Academy, had been admired amongst his peers. He was being groomed for admiral, until he disappeared in 1990, abandoning his family on Christmas Eve. When he finally remerged, it was to sell classified documents, marring his name for good, becoming the Concierge of Crime. That was where her clearance ended, but Liz knows the stories, can imagine the heinous and violent crimes he is associated with. He’s dangerous, most likely psycho or sociopathic, powerful and _incredibly_ clever, he’d have to be to evade the FBI for over 20 years, and so successfully. Liz knows that if she goes to meet him, makes contact, he’ll have the upper ground at all times, could easily put a bullet between her eyes and leave her body to rot. No one would come looking for her; it would be the easiest murder he’d ever have to commit. So, she doesn’t know why she dials the number, curled up on her bed, hands trembling as she holds the phone to her cheek.

It rings and rings, for so long that Liz thinks the line may cut out, that she has hit _another_ dead end and for a moment she is _relieved_ , her body sagging into her pillows. And then a voice crackles through the speaker, business-like, stern. Liz is now sitting upright, fingers gripping her sheets, heart threatening to crack open her ribcage, flop onto her quilt to wilt, die.

“What package do you desire?”

Liz can’t help that her voice breaks, the tremble that runs through her body affecting her vocal cords. She winces, tries to calm herself down, sound as certain and professional as the stranger on the other line. It wasn’t Reddington, couldn’t possibly be.

“I need to purchase a package that can get me out of the country, under a new identity, please.”

There is the distinct shuffle of papers on the other end of the line, the clearing of someone’s throat, the rattle of the phone as it is moved from one shoulder to the other. Liz sits still, waits patiently, not even knowing the _beginning_ of a process such as this. Her fingers are still clenched tight in her sheets, the fabric twisted around her knuckles.

“Name?” They demand eventually and Liz’s voice catches in her throat as she goes to respond, her name almost flowing off her tongue, so naturally and _normal_. She thinks frantically, Fyodor’s words flowing through her mind, a hindsight she should have made.

_They’ll probably do a background check on you_.

“Ella Grange,” she blurts out, praying that she didn’t wait too long, that they don’t notice the pause, the hesitation. The typing of a keyboard is muted over the speaker, but still discernible. Liz breathes deeply.

Ella Grange had attended high school with Liz. She was a magnificent athlete, pegged to go far in her hockey career, should she follow it. Her hair is brown, eyes blue, and face, soft and round. Liz and she had been friendly acquaintances, had been constantly mistaken for each other during class, even though Liz was taller and Ella had a bad case of acne. They spoke rarely, merely shared knowing smiles when they corrected the teachers. Liz had not seen her since graduation, didn’t know where she lived, what she did now, and yet, she had not hesitated to pass her name over to known and violent criminals. Liz feels ill, disgust at herself ripping a pit open in her stomach.

“You gave a different name to Fyodor,” the voice states, tone severe, as if admonishing a child.

“I’d just been beaten in an alley way and dragged into a nightclub,” Liz growls in response, finally releasing the sheets to run an agitated hand through her hair. “Of course I gave him a fake name; he could have known my husband.”

“Smart girl,” is the response and Liz is momentarily taken back, her brow creasing into a frown as she glares at her bedroom door, considering whether they were mocking her or being sincere. She decides not to answer, waits for the next question, feeling as if she is at the Spanish Inquisition.

“This package is a total of $130,000 and will need to be deposited in the account I am about to relay to you.”

Liz has the money, hidden in a duffel bag under her bed, countless more notes than the required amount. She’d accessed the mysterious accounts she had discovered at Sam’s, was not willing to give these criminals a means to trace the money back to her, back to her _father’s_ savings, what he had once worked so hard for. She grits her teeth, clenches her eyes and curses the stubborn streak that thrives in her blood.

“I’ve already taken the money out, that won’t be possible.”

The voice sounds disgruntled when it replies, the response eliciting a small smile of triumph from Liz. Until the words fully sink in, dread pooling in her stomach as she listens.

“A meeting will be set, where you will give the money to my employer, who will in turn supply you with your package,” they drone, “in two days time, in the late afternoon, go to the National Mall. We have your photo. Someone will be sent to pick you up.”

And then the line drops out and Liz is left with her phone stuck to the skin of her cheek. She feels as if she is drowning, struggling against a relentless, inescapable tide. It pulls at her lungs, batters her muscles, dragging her down into the deep, into the _dark_. Terror bleeds into her bloodstream, dilutes the oxygen, making it impossible to _breathe_. She throws the phone onto the mattress, watches as it bounces onto the floor with a thud. Liz has no weapon, no identification to support her false name, and _no back up_. All she has is the constant burn of the unknown, the tarnished image of her father, and a name in red ink.

The days drag by, agonisingly slow, almost _stagnant_. Liz, once again, has secluded herself to her apartment, only replying to Tom’s messages to say that she is busy, can’t catch up. She continues to scour the web for information on Reddington, finding only horrifyingly violent recounts and stories of the crimes he has committed. After one such read, Liz slams her laptop closed and goes to bed, her fingers shaking, and sleep evasive. When she wakes, only an hour has crawled by, and Liz knows she should eat, but can barely stomach the thought. She stares at the television, on mute, for the rest of the night, eyes glazed.

She contemplates alerting the FBI, sending a qualified agent in her stead. They may be able to infiltrate Reddington’s empire, dismantle the criminal network he has formed through bloodshed and crime. Her phone is full of contacts that would enable her to alert her superiors, to keep herself safe, keep her job and most likely her life. The screen lights up on her mobile, the contact list open and the names staring back at her. She could easily swipe, make the call, end it all, but she _can’t_. Sam’s life, her _own_ life, would come under scrutiny if they were to ask how she came by these leads, managed to do what they couldn’t for over twenty years. They would tear her life apart, postpone her education at Quantico, sideline her from the FBI, question and interrogate, discover the loss of her weapon, how _long_ she had had this information, these leads. An anonymous tip would be the best choice, would eliminate all possibility of Liz being involved at all; she’d just aid in putting away a criminal mastermind, become a faceless saviour and continue on in her life as if nothing had changed, as if everything she had found was _nothing_. However, that is not an option; to not know why Sam had those passports, the money, would drive her _mad_. So she closes her phone, turns it off, ignores the anxiety that slithers through her. She’ll do it herself, no matter the consequences.

In the morning she wakes with a rush of adrenaline, the sheets tangled around her sweat soaked body. Her lungs heaving as she gasps for breath, eyes roaming the ceiling, because it’s _today_ and her heart is skipping a beat with each hour that passes. She paces and sits. She showers and stares, fidgety, anxious. Her clothes are tight, constricting, _itchy_ , but she doesn’t get changed, barely moves in the last two hours; the microwave clock flashes at her like a warning sign.

When she stands, retrieves her car keys, her body creaks, cracks. She moves as if in a dream, eyes glazed, limbs mechanical, as she locks her apartment and makes her way to the garage. Her car rumbles to life beneath her, a whisper in the roar of her mind. The traffic trundles along beside her, the innocent lives of so many, the people that look back at her when she stares through her window at them, _sane_ people, not willing to affiliate with criminals and _murderers_. These were people that were not willing to play with fire, blazing, hot, _red_ , and risk being scorched beyond recognition.

Liz grits her teeth, tightens her grip on the wheel, steely determination rising through her. Her scar itches. She has survived one encounter already with fire, roaring flames, and she knows that she can survive another. Her heartbeat stabilises, sound seemingly returning with the steady _tick_ of her indicator. The National Mall is to her left, parking is near impossible.

As she steps out of the lot, the brisk autumn wind whips through her hair, tangling and tugging at the brown tresses. It bites through her clothing to her skin; skin that has been hidden from the kiss of the summer sun, skin still riddled with grief. She rubs at her arms, remembering when Sam would do similarly as he walked her to school, the winter of Nebraska cold and unforgiving. A warm hot chocolate would be cradled in her small hands, feeling the warmth seep into her palms, apart from the marred flesh of her scar, numb to most sensations. The beanie Aunt June had knitted her for Christmas would be tugged over her head, covering her ears. Tears prick at her eyes as she combs her fingers through her hair.

Sam was never far from her mind.

She finds a park bench, looks out across the water, while joggers and bike riders flow past her vision. Her arms curl around her midriff as she waits, the sun falling lower and lower towards the horizon, the wind biting colder and colder, even as the time ticks by so _slowly_ , the afternoon dragging on into evening. And still, Liz sits, frozen by the cold and by her thoughts, each passerby a potential threat, the man or woman sent to drag her away to God knows where. Those on bikes, one’s with dogs trotting at their heels, surely pose no danger, but those wearing bulky clothing, businessmen, businesswomen, tourists and guides, all keep Liz on high alert, fingernails digging into the paint of the bench, chipping the deep red away. Her eyes track their movements, focussed and unwavering, adrenaline thrumming through her bloodstream.

So intent is she on those that stroll past, she fails to notice the man approaching from behind. When his hand, heavy and with a firm grip, lands on her shoulder Liz bites back a startled gasp, stills her warrior reflexes to break the man’s hand. Instead, she looks up at him, a question in her gaze and worry lines around her mouth.

He is around her age; thinning brown hair, dark, icy blue eyes, and a sharp face, his cheekbones chiselled and high, jaw line jutting out. His hand lifts from her shoulder and with the movement his jacket gapes ever so slightly. Liz spots the holster and gun shoved into it, strapped around his torso, before the jacket falls back into place, allowing him to be a normal civilian once more. He gives her a tight smile, eyes sparking with an unspoken _threat_. She would follow his instructions _exactly_ , or risk having a bullet lodged in her brain.

“Ella Grange?” He asks and at her nod he walks back the way he came, the opposite direction to where Liz parked, only turning back when he realises she is not following.

Liz rises on unsteady feet, her legs feeling weak, as if not able to hold her weight. She trails after him, eyes steady on his back, ready to flee if his hands linger from his sides, slide under the jacket to grab the weapon concealed beneath. He slows his gate, so that they are now walking alongside each other. She waits for him to say something, anything, about where he is taking her, what is waiting for her when she arrives, but he is practically mute, ignoring her when she asks. Liz rubs at her scar, her thumb manic over the roughened and ruined skin.

The sun is setting, painting the sky in fire; reds, oranges, yellows, a burning endless plane suspended above them, as the molten yellow sinks below the horizon, the rays shimmering over the pond. The mountainous clouds rise up into the nothingness, looking aflame, smeared black as soot, reflecting red, even as they threatening to open, to soak the world in blue. The wind still whips around them, dragging at their clothing, making the trees whisper. Sam had always told her to listen to the trees, to the secrets they had to tell her, the lessons she could learn. As a young girl she’d thought he was teasing her, she’d laugh at him, tell him to not be so silly, ever logical. Now, as she wanders amongst the aged beasts that tower above her, possibly to her death, she fancies that she can hear Sam whispering to her, a steady support, watching over her.

They reach the street; continue to walk down it without falter, until a white van, idles up beside them. It has advertisement for a bakery in the inner city slathered across it in bright purple font. The driver steps out the vehicle, nods at the man that had met Liz and disappears off down the street. When Liz looks back, the man is standing with her door open, gesturing for her to get inside. She slides in, feeling sweat rolling down her ribcage, between her shoulder blades. Her breaths are unsteady, heart pounding relentlessly. He pushes the door closed, the thud the seal to Liz’s fate. She puts her belt on, grips onto the seat as they pull into traffic. Counts the minutes that they drive, the closer they draw to Reddington.

The wheels roll beneath them as they glide onto a highway, out of the city, into the dusk, only illuminated by the other car lights. Diamonds and rubies, blurring as they fly past, peak hour building up to form a necklace that weaves across the land. Liz stares at the reflection in the window, the hum of the engine the only noise in the compartment, her companion silent and stony. She wonders how long he has been in Reddington’s employment, what crimes he has committed, how tarnished and dark his soul may be. He catches her once, smirks when she hurriedly looks away, before he focuses his attention back onto the road.

Inky blackness has fallen over the sky, a blanket of velvet, sprinkled with diamonds, starlight. They roll and roll, and when they exit the highway an hour has passed. Abandoned and derelict buildings surround them, an area for industry, where black, polluted smoke pours from the chimneys and the workers are clad in helmets, fluorescent clothing. Now, at night, all is dark, the orange hue of the streetlights the only other light, throwing ghastly shadows over the buildings. There are no other cars, no other people, just Liz and a stranger, a criminal. When he speaks, Liz can’t help but jump.

“We’re almost there,” he murmurs, turning down another street where two tomcats are yowling, he slows the car, waits for them to scurry off into the dark. “Someone will be out to pick you up.”

Liz just nods, a fresh wave of anxiety twisting her gut. Her fingers quiver, quake, so she shoves them into her lap, focuses on steadying her breathing, her racing heart. She tries to imagine the man waiting for her, how she could possibly get such a man to give her answers to the questions that screamed and rioted in her mind. The photos the FBI had of him at best were blurred, his face hidden beneath a hat, sunglasses, or facial hair. He is a blank face, an empty canvas, and Liz will have only moments to profile him, assess him.

She has no identification, hopes that she can bluff her way through the meeting, play the poor beaten housewife. Her face is blackened, purpled, yellowed, the swelling still prominent around her eyes and skin littered with cuts and gashes. They were a testament to her claims, evidence, and hopefully enough to move Reddington, no matter how heartless he must be. She thinks briefly of Fyodor, how ready and eager he had been to help, to aid a defenceless woman. There is only a sliver of hope that Reddington will give her a similar reception.

They pull up to the curb and her door is opened by a man outside. He’s older, his hair long, dark brown and pulled back into a ponytail. A grey beard surrounds his mouth, as he smiles at her courteously, offering her a hand as she clambers out the car. As soon as she is clear of the vehicle it drives off into the night, a ghost with glowing red eyes. Liz turns to her new handler, notices the knives hanging from his hips. He catches her gaze, nods at her and leads the way inside, pulling his jumper further down his body to hide the blades. Where he hides his gun, because Liz is certain he is carrying, she hasn’t the faintest.

The warehouse they approach looms above them, dark and menacing, as if the man that currently occupies it has tarnished it with his tainted soul. The windows are boarded, and those that are not are smashed, glass sprinkled over the gravel. Crude graffiti litters the concrete walls, the colours bright, blinding, in contrast to the sullen dull grey. The chimneys are cold, dead; smoke does not seep from them, billowing up into the sky. They were entirely alone; the business that once inhabited this building long gone, redundant, their footsteps the only sound.

At their approach, a roller-door screeches and grinds against its hinges, revealing another of Reddington’s men and _light_ , it spills across the gravel towards them, warm and inviting. Liz shrinks back from it, heart seizing in fear, even as she walks closer. The man walking with her nods his head, turns and moves off in another direction; she hears a door squeal as it’s opened before slamming shut. The newest of the men waits for her to meet him; he’s tall, broad, _strong_ , skin dark and smooth, head bald and facial features angular. His eyes are dark, so brown they look black, as he stares at her, expression severe, a muscle in his jaw clenching. Something flashes over his face, an expression of rage, if Liz is able to interpret it correctly. She slows to a stop before him, only a few strides away.

He walks forward, gently frisks her, and when finding nothing, turns and leads her deeper into the warehouse. It’s empty, top to bottom, completely and utterly empty, their footsteps echoing as they walk, Liz struggling to keep up with the larger man’s strides. She can’t help but notice the way he glances at her, it’s unnerving, causes Liz to rub at her scar once more.

They make their way up a flight of stairs, approach an office, fixed into the corner of the warehouse. The door is closed, but soft jazz can be heard from within. Liz feels every muscle in her body seize as the man opens the door, another shaft of light crawling across the floor. He nods at her, in what Liz assumes is supposed to be an assuring matter, as she takes a shaky step forwards.

The door clicks shut behind her and Liz wants to run, wants to dart of into the darkness, risk taking a bullet in the back as she flees. Fear has lodged in her throat, constricted her breathing, suffocating her calm. She can see a shadow on the carpet; can see that the office is well furnished, luxurious. Her heart is pounding, shoving and clawing its way up her throat. Another step and she is over the threshold, can see Raymond Reddington for the first time, his back to her as he stares out into the night, through the only intact window in the entire warehouse. A rug, patterned in reds and black, lays upon the floor, separating the mahogany dining table from the timber floors, the only furniture separating them. A record player is tucked into the corner, the vinyl spinning as jazz flows through the air. Reddington stands by a coffee table, a decanter of scotch glinting in the soft light. She clears her throat, is surprised when she manages to speak.

“Hello, I’m Ella Grange,” her voice is soft, she ducks her head, feels her hair fall in front of her face, waits for his response. She holds her breath, rubs at her scar.

“Good evening, I’m Raymond Reddington,” he states, still not facing her.

He’s a sensual masterpiece, _art_ ; every aspect of his clothing, appearance, God even his _name_ , a means to seduce and captivate,  _enthrall_. His posture is relaxed, but by the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the way he faces the window, so as to look into the reflection, Liz is able to see that he is well aware of his surroundings, _alert_. The suit, a dark navy matched with a brown belt and shoes, is professionally tailored to enhance his figure, exude the wealth and power he possesses, adorned with a matching fedora. A watch, flashy and silver, glints on his wrist. His attire, it’s his _armour_.

Liz can tell he is handsome, even from behind, the way he dresses, the confidence he radiates, assuring it. A crystal tumbler cradled loosely in his fingers, filled with amber liquid, reflects in the light, manages to complement his outfit, the image he conveys. As does the cigar smoke that wafts around him, arm cocked out to tap ash into the designated tray, class, _sophistication_. His voice is so deep, a rumble of thunder soaked in honey. It is powerful, commanding, _seductive_.

When he turns on his heel, looking at the ground, fedora shading his eyes, Liz can see that he is smirking, a show of white teeth, crooked. He lifts the cigar to his mouth, eyes travelling up her body as he takes a drag. She knows that it is a show of power, a _game_ he most likely plays with his clientele, particularly females. So Liz stands still, waits for his eyes to meet hers, and even though she is prepared, she can’t help the shaky breath she lets out when their eyes meet, because he is _Raymond Reddington_ , and the full intensity of his gaze is focused on her. His eyes are green, sharp and _wide_. The cigar falls from his mouth as his hand drops to his side, ash floating to the floor in its wake. Liz frowns at him, he almost looks fearful, his gaze flickering over her face.

Then he breathes her name,

“Lizzie.”

And Elizabeth feels as if she has been doused in freezing water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N; Don’t fear, the next chapter is well underway and pretty damn big! Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think!


	5. Such A Fearless Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Always I remember you,  
> Slow down so I can follow you,  
> And you, such a fearless soul,  
> Disarmed me by truth, and broke my mold.”- Always, Panama

Her face is bruised, mottled and dark; the purple that had bloomed beneath her eyes from exhaustion is now smeared across her face, the product of a vicious assault. Cuts and grazes litter her skin, lips chapped and swollen, split. She is still thin, the clothing she is wearing, warm jeans and a bulky jacket, do nothing to hide her malnourished and weakening body from Red’s penetrating gaze. He bites down on the inside of his cheek, attempts to school his expression into something indifferent, muffle the wrath searing through his blood.

Ever since the day Raymond had left Lizzie with Sam, she had been under surveillance, watched over from afar; kept safe and oblivious of the terrors that could plague her. Constantly, without fault, someone would be nearby; ready to intervene, cause a distraction, anything they were instructed to do under Red’s employ. Liz has been unknowingly tracked her entire life, without incident, until three days earlier, after Dembe and he had received the news that Lizzie had ended her engagement, the photos, Keen’s _disloyalty_. They had moved into their hotel room, discussed their next movements, planning to leave for America the next morning, when Dembe received another message, another photo, from the man they had tailing Keen, Tyson. His blank eyes, dead and cold, stared up at them from the small screen. There was no message, and as they studied the image, another photo came through. It caused Red to stand abruptly from his chair, the wood scraping along the tiled floor with a protesting screech, as he searched through their bags for a burner mobile, a steady stream of panic pumping its way through his heart. The man employed to watch over Lizzie, track her movements, stared back at them, dead as well; which meant that Lizzie was unprotected, vulnerable. The phone rang with one more message and Red stared at Dembe in dread, waited for his friend to open the text, a fresh mobile clutched in his hand, palm clammy.

“It was Keen.”

And the panic burned away into rage, indignation at the thought that this man, having disobeyed orders, had wormed his way into Lizzie’s life and would so blatantly put her in danger, _know_ that he was doing so, to have the _audacity_ to believe that he could keep her safe. He dialled a number, made contact with associates, organised a new tail, for Lizzie, but it had been too late. The next image they received of her, she was bloodied and bruised, the next morning when she was taking out her trash. The fresh tail that he had organised was unable to gather any information on how she had received her injuries, just reported that she never left her apartment, never opened the curtains.

There was only twelve hours where her moves were unaccounted for, and she had severely paid for it. Red had gritted his teeth, swore that he would personally deliver the bullet that killed Tom Keen.

And now, two days later, she stands before him, beaten and bruised, and he can’t _believe_ it, can’t _breathe_. He hasn’t been this close to her since the night of the fire; his scars itching with the memory. Her brows crease into a frown, her stance wary, afraid, as if he would attack her at any moment. So, Raymond says the only thing that is screaming in his mind, steamrolling through his thoughts like a train. The only thing he could _possibly_ say in that moment, his prayer.

“Lizzie.”

It’s breathless, too full of emotion, too _familiar_ , and she looks terrified, pales, takes a step backwards. Red tries to recover, tries to drag air back into his lungs, stop the rampant panic spreading through his system like a disease, corrosive and deadly. But she isn’t supposed to be here, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, he was supposed to go to _her_ , have time to plan, organise, ready himself to face the woman that could change his life; his second _chance_.

She seems to transform before him, at first cowering, riddled with terror, an unarmed woman before a _monster_. And then she’s standing straighter, jaw setting, eyes molten, _blazing_. Lizzie looks positively furious, even though her hand strays to her wrist, scarred and burned. She rubs at the marred skin, a nervous gesture, though her voice is sharp when she speaks to him, demanding.

“How do you know my name?”

He stares at her, knows that he is doing so, can’t physically stop himself, is aware of the ash falling from his cigar, the minute tremble in the hand that clutches his scotch. This is _Lizzie_ , the little girl he dragged from a burning house, the night the world was seemingly on fire. The little girl who stood in the shower and smiled at him as the world turned black around him, the pain too much. Lizzie so small and fragile and _young_ , innocent, in the photo’s Sam sent him, now a woman, stricken with grief, loss, but still so strong, so hard, so _impatient_.

“Are you going to kill me?” She snaps when he doesn’t answer, her thumb still stroking at her scar. Red can see that her teeth are gritted, can see through the bravado she is putting on, can see the _fear_ in her eyes, knows it well since the night of the fire, the blue burning as bright as the flames. The thought that he would hurt her, would even _consider_ such a thing, is laughable. And so he chuckles softly, sadly, meets her gaze and, as tactless, or tactful, as ever, launches straight for her jugular.

“I was sorry to hear about Sam’s death, Lizzie.”

She practically flinches at his words, her body seemingly crumpling, shrinking away from him. Her eyes are wide, shocked, as she stares back at him, lips parted. Red’s eyes are once more drawn to her scar, an angry red beacon, their histories burned into their flesh. She notices his attentions, shoves her hands behind her back, looks to the door behind her before turning back to face him.

“Did you know my father?” She asks, voice so soft and timid, almost in wonder, if it weren’t for the apprehension swimming in her gaze. Red takes a sip of his drink, assesses her, speculates how they came to this moment, how she came to be standing in front of him, completely out of her depth. She is putting herself, everything Red has worked so hard to protect, at risk. He tilts his head, smiles at her; at the way she is frowning at him once more, making Red wonder what she looks like when she smiles.

“How did you manage to contact my people?” He questions instead, deflecting her line of questioning, feeling, _finally_ , his mask of indifference slip into place, his confidence, cockiness. Liz shakes her head, even _scoffs_ at him, and he finds himself smothering a smile.

“Did you know my father? Are you the one responsible for the faked passports?” Her voice is hard, fierce, refusing to answer him. She has even taken a step towards him, so volatile, unpredictable. Questions thrum in her tone, the concentration in her gaze, unwavering, she is analysing, profiling. He still does not answer her.

“Did you _know my father_?”

Red can imagine how Sam would react to an event such as this, can feel the older man’s knuckles connecting with his jaw, hands shaking, throttling sense into him. They had _promised_ each other, that Red would never make contact with Lizzie unless strictly necessary, to keep her safe. Sam had cared for nothing in his life as much as he cared for Lizzie, and in that way he and Red were similar. There was a time, before the fire, when Red still had his family, still had a _home_ , but now, _now_ , she was _everything_ , his all, the only _good_ remaining in his life.

His thoughts flit to Dembe, wise and loyal Dembe, his _brother_ , and he feels a small smile tugs at his lips; perhaps she was not the _only_ good thing.

“Coming here alone, Lizzie, was _rash_ , dangerous. If I had been anyone else, if _you_ had been anyone else, I would not have hesitated to kill you.”

Her jaw clicks shut, audible in the silence, eyes darting around the room, as if she is coming back to herself, realising that she is standing before Raymond Reddington, notorious criminal, a ruthless _killer_. She takes a step back, and Red can see the fear bleeding back into her eyes, the certainty of her fate, sure that he is going to _hurt_ her. The fear he can’t stand, so reminiscent of the last time he saw her; he’d promised that he would never let her be that terrified again. So, in an attempt to gain her trust, he pulls out his gun, ignores the way her body becomes rigid, the gasp that leaves her. The metal of the weapon shines in the light, polished and cleaned as Sam had always instructed. Red clicks open the chamber, the sound _like_ a gunshot in the silence. He empties the bullets out into his palm, takes a cautious step towards her. She is staring at him, is not breathing, as he reaches for her wrist, her left wrist, uncurls her fingers and tips the golden capsules into her palm. A ragged breath escapes her as he takes a step away.

“Your father and I, we were old friends, very old friends. We stayed in contact, rarely, but he did warn me when you began to work with the FBI, said that there was finally an agent capable of catching me,” he says in good humour, remembering the phone call, Sam’s croaky voice. It had been only minutes after Lizzie had left, entered the world on her own. He’d been crying.

She is suspicious; of course she is suspicious, her eyes narrowing as they roam over his face. Her fingers have closed over the bullets, warming the cool metal, but she still manages to run her thumb over her scar; still nervous, wary. Red is glad, she’d be stupid to not be.

“What was his name?”

And Red feels a grin split his face, the name rolling off his tongue so easily, his last name the only difference. Lizzie would not know about Sam Milhoan, he would have never told her; the skilled and ruthless man he had once been, the man that had worked by Red’s side when the world was at its bleakest. He doesn’t wait for her to reply, pointedly looks at the wrist she cradles absentmindedly in her hand; a means to distract her, leaning away from her ruthless line of questioning.

“How did you come by that scar?”

He knows; in the worst of his nightmares he can still feel her blood slick and warm against him, can still smell her burned flesh, can hear her _screams_ ringing through the night, only quietened by his own as he wakes thrashing in his bed, sheets tangled around him and the flames still licking up his back. She looks down at the scar, rubs her thumb over it a final time before shoving it behind her back, looking up at him. An answer doesn’t seem likely, the question so personal, her expression closed off, affronted in a way.

And then Lizzie surprises them both, Red hopes she continues to do, and says, quietly,

“There was a fire when I was younger.”

“Someone was trying to hurt you,” a statement, not a question, and Lizzie picks up on it, so aware and alert, so _sharp_. She runs a hand through her hair in agitation, a trait so similar to Sam it makes his heartache.

“Did my father tell you about the night of the fire?” She asks, tone so desperate, questions she has always wanted answered trapped behind her teeth. “I have no recollection of it, can’t remember anything from that night, just the flames.”

Raymond remembers them the most, too. The crackle as they ate away at the house, the searing heat that poured from them, the _colours_ , so beautiful even as they licked and coiled around them as _death_. He takes a swallow of his drink, this line of conversation reeling wildly out of his control, the memories, the emotion, an assault on his already fraying nerves. There are answers he can’t give her, won’t risk putting her in such mortal danger.

“I need the name of the man or woman who gave you the means to contact me, Lizzie,” he replies, his tone stern now, broking no argument. The door behind her cracks open and Dembe steps into the room with a nod, his eyes latching onto Raymond’s, assessing the damage this occurrence has caused, the amount of bottles of scotch he should stock for the upcoming weeks. Lizzie is staring, _glaring_ , at him; lips pressed into a thin line, cracking open her wounds, a bead of blood blooming on the delicate pink flesh. She licks it away before answering.

“I followed a man named Alexander Slattery to a nightclub,” she begins, in a drone, unemotional as she recounts the events. “He jumped me in an alley, took my service weapon with him. After regaining consciousness, I was taken to the owner of the nightclub, a man called Fyodor, who was willing to give me a means out of the country. That came in the form of giving me a number to contact an employee of yours.”

Inside, the monster shifts and bristles, blind anger searing through his system. The bullets she now cradles in her palm are the ones he so desperately wants to embed in Slattery’s body. Clutched tightly in his hand is the gun, empty, useless. It is slick with sweat, seems to burn and spark with energy as Red looks down at it. He turns away from Lizzie, places the weapon on the table; there is time, later, when he could deal with Slattery. For now his focus is _Lizzie_.

“Dembe, see to it that Lizzie’s weapon is retrieved from Alexander,” Red instructs turning back to Lizzie with a smile on his face. She does not look impressed. The door clicks shut as Dembe leaves, his footsteps echoing in the silence.

“It’s Elizabeth.”

He pulls his head back, amusement sparking in his eyes at her determined expression, posture. Her arms are crossed, jaw jutting out, eyes narrowed. She is _exquisite_ and he can’t help the smirk that spreads across his face. He wants to bait her, inspire reactions, watch her transform and change with her emotions; she’s so _expressive_.

“I’ve always found first names so _intimate_ ,” he replies jovially, taking a drag of his cigar, watching with fascination as her lips part, “but if you so insist, _Elizabeth_.”

She ignores the comment, still shifts restlessly on her feet, arms still crossed, expression closed off; her lips are pressed back together. There is only one chair to offer her, this warehouse rarely ever used and minimally furnished. Red walks over to the coffee table, pushes the decanter full of amber liquid to the side and takes a seat, indicating that Lizzie should do the same opposite him. She moves hesitantly, her footsteps soft as she approaches him. When she sits it is with her legs crossed, posture straight, shaking her head when Red offers her a drink.

They sit across from one another, agent and criminal, assessing and wondering, eyes locked, neither backing down. She is brave. Raymond knows that all she sees when she looks at him is the criminal, the _blood_ and gore that forged his empire, his name. The crimson that mars his hands, the sinew and flesh caught under his fingernails; the result of the butchering and clawing essential to his survival. And when he looks at her, so pure and innocent, even as the flames slither and burn around her, all he can see is how she has grown to be, that she is no longer the child he had to protect, but a woman, fierce and fiery. The flames don’t burn around her, ready to consume, they burn around her like a halo, a force to be reckoned with.

“What are you going to do with me?” she breaks the silence, “will you answer any of my questions?”

“What are your questions?”

“How do I know that you won’t lie to me?”

“I would never lie to you, Lizzie.”

Her eyelids flutter at that, causing Red to smile softly. It’s as if against her better judgment, the corners of her lips quirk up, until she quickly looks away, schooling her features, a flash of annoyance dancing over her face. When she looks back to him, her eyes seem bright, unshed tears glistening in her eyes, causing Red’s stomach to lurch. She has been so alone, with her grief, with her confusion. He knows she will ask about the box she found in Sam’s house, the number of Bill Kershaw having been secreted away in there for over twenty years. He can imagine that she sat in that house, the box held in her hands, the weight of her discovery suffocating her, twisting, corrupting her image of Sam, all the memories she holds so dear.

“Do you know how my father came by these fake passports?” She reaches into the pocket of her jacket, pulls out the documents, hands trembling slightly. They’ve never been used, practically untouched. Red stares at them, exceedingly glad she hasn’t asked about the money. He rolls his tongue around his mouth before answering. Her blue eyes are glued to his own.

“I gave them to him.”

“Why?”

“To keep you both safe,” he responds before quickly continuing, “you look exhausted, Lizzie, not to mention underfed, which should be a _crime_. Come, we’ll get you some food, continue this talk in my car.”

At first he thinks that she is going to immediately decline, the way her hands grip onto the sides of the chair as they do. He forgets that he is a stranger, acts so _familiar_ , with her, forgets that she has no recollection of him. Her expression is disgruntled, as if she wants to protest further, demand answers, but believes herself to be in a precarious situation; trapped with a ruthless criminal. His knees pop and crack when he stands, looking down at her, offering her a hand. When she takes it, grudgingly, Raymond feels his chest seize, breath hitch, before he gently pulls her to her feet. He drops her hand as quickly as he took it and leads her out of the warehouse.

“You never said what you were going to do with me?” She doesn’t sound as fearful now, as worried and apprehensive as she had been, and confliction rises within Red. Her trust a blessing and a curse, if he had been anyone else, she could quite possibly be dead. He glances back at her, the few steps she walks behind him.

“I’m going to feed you. I know this lovely little Indian restaurant, not too far from here. The mango lassies are to _die_ for, Lizzie, and the woman that owns it, Kumari, is a genuine _pleasure_ to be with. I met her a few years ago, traversing through India, and thank _Go_ _d_ I stumbled across her, dehydrated and naked that I was, sunburned _beyond_ the imagination, red and raw. The dear that she is coated me in some concoction that I have never been able to replicate, which really would have helped during my stay in Syria, anyway, it _stopped_ the heat almost immediately. In repayment, I gave her the funds to start up her own business, and she followed me here, to America,” he gushes, as a smile creeps over her face, “so, Dembe will drive us there and then we’ll take you home.”

“What about my car?”

“I’m sure I can have something arranged, have it returned to you,” he says with a laugh, “even though I’m a big bad criminal, I have no intention of leaving you without a vehicle. I have plenty of my own.”

Her teeth are white, dead straight, lips pink and perfect. The blue of her eyes sparkle, glitter like the Indian Ocean when she looks at him. Her cheeks are flushed pink beneath the purple, as she laughs quietly, the sound like rain on a tin roof, so soothing, calming, when you’re wrapped up in bed, warm and at _home_. Red knows he’s staring, _enthralled_ by her, so much so that he physically drags his gaze away from her as they move through the warehouse, eyes locking on to Dembe where he stands at the roller door, speaking into his phone. When he notices their approach, he ends the call, heaves up the door and leads them out into the dark. This area has always been so _dreary_ , amplified by the ghostly orange streetlights. If Red had known it was Lizzie coming to him tonight, he would have arranged to meet somewhere nicer, somewhere less derelict. She never asks how he knows what model her car is, how he knows where she parked.

They follow Dembe to the car, Lizzie sliding into the vehicle first and Red following after her. In the close quarters of the car, he can tell that she isn’t comfortable, by no means fearful, simply unsettled. She looks guilty, thumb rubbing at her scar again. Red wants to reach over and still the movement, calm her down without chaffing her skin raw. Instead, he settles for palming off his fedora, placing it between them, a barrier of sorts. With the turn of the ignition, the car clicks to life beneath them and Dembe navigates them off into the streets, Red leaning forwards to tell him their destination of choice. He then turns to Lizzie, waiting for her to look at him. Eyes the colour of cornflowers gaze back at him.

“Aren’t you worried I’ll contact the authorities?” She says quietly, looking back down, into her lap, picking imaginary lint off her jeans.

He laughs, shakes his head, causing her to frown, _again_ , at him. Glancing up into the rear view mirror, he can see that even Dembe is smiling. The streetlights flash over the car as they pass underneath, painting her ivory skin with an orange tinge. She seems embarrassed at his amusement, turning her head to look out the window, causing Red to sober, clear his throat. He forgets that she is still young, not the little girl he’d saved, but a woman growing and learning, finding her feet in an occupation, in a _world_ , that is determined to inhibit her because of her gender.

“I never much liked that warehouse, Lizzie, so if you were to contact your co-workers, it would be of no loss. It is the only information you could give them of me, and it isn’t much to go on,” he replies, “but I don’t think you’ll do such a thing, Lizzie, not with the _controversial_ means you used to track me down, the loss of your service weapon. Your superiors would be disappointed, I, however, am extremely impressed.”

She has tensed, is looking at him with wide eyes. Her career, her _life_ , could very much be in danger if word got out of their meeting. The FBI, the CIA, her _government_ , would drag her off into some concrete cell, interrogate, _torture_ , her for information. She’d be locked up in some dark hole, a Blacksite, never to be seen again. Red swallows, his presence already increasing the amount of danger she is in, the guilt swelling in him unbearable. He reaches across the seat, gently grabs her fingers, and gives them a squeeze.

“I won’t let anything happen to you, Lizzie,” he promises, his voice low, quiet, a vow to only her. Her tongue darts between her lips, her eyes roving over his face judging his sincerity. “Sam would rise from the dead and kill me if I did.”

He releases her hand then, turns to look out the window, let’s his words sink in. It would ultimately be her decision to trust him; he would not force himself upon her. The plan had changed, was crashing and barrelling towards them with urgency, her inquisitiveness accelerating the process. Strolling into the FBI, surrendering to _her_ , is not an option now. The Blacklist, the progression of it, would need to be altered. When he chances a glance back at her, he sees that her shoulders are rounded, the weight of her actions are heaving down upon her.

“It’s funny that you should bring up the FBI,” he begins, conniving mind, whirling, contemplating, weighing the pros and cons, a tumultuous stream of possibilities running through his mind, “I was going to turn myself in, discuss my proposal with Assistant Director Harold Cooper. You see, I have a Blacklist, names of a whole class of criminals your Government is unaware of. Criminals that you haven’t even _heard_ of, malicious, vindictive murderers, child traffickers, slavers, drug dealers, weapon smugglers, out in the world, evading capture, evading justice.”

Her focus is entirely riveted onto him, a look of disbelief scrawled across her features. The arch of her eyebrows almost grazes her hairline, the corners of her lips turned down, into a strange disapproving smirk, chin tilted upwards. She looks as if he is being presumptuous, audacious. He smiles to himself, he most likely is.

“What gives you the slightest inclination that they wouldn’t just arrest you and toss you into some black hole?” She remarks, twisting her torso to face him. They’ve pulled onto the highway now, abandoned now that the night is creeping to morning, the sane and sensible are tucked away in their houses, in their beds. He grins at her.

“Oh, there is no doubt that they would have,” he responds, eyes glinting, “I had a plan, to establish value, have the upper hand, even if they bound me to a chair and locked me in a box.”

With a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, the tilting of his head, he realises that this new arrangement, may give them more flexibility, more leeway. The possibility to work by her side without fumbling agents, wires strapped to their chest, cameras leering down at them, the possibility to get to _know_ Lizzie, is too tempting to disregard.

“But, plans change, life goes on, contingencies need to be put in place,” he sighs, perhaps slightly melodramatically, hesitating, stalling briefly, wondering if this will be the last time he gets to speak with her. “You and I would make a great team, Lizzie.”

She realises with stunning clarity what he is implying, suggesting. Her eyes are wide in offense, leaning away from him, frowning once more. Red fights the urge to retract his statement, inhale the words he had carelessly thrown out into the open. It was too fast, too soon, and now it was _too late_.

“You want me to become a criminal?” She says, aghast, and Red can feel the spread of insult ripple throughout. He grits his teeth, steadies his breathing, she has no _idea_ , has been kept in the dark for her entire life. She’s ignorant; he was the one to make her so. It still _hurts_ , even if it is true.

“Criminal doesn’t really suit you; I must admit,” He replies, tilting his head from side to side, twisting his lips, “I would suggest something more like vigilante, doesn’t that sound exciting?”

She doesn’t respond, but Reddington is heartened by the way her lips quirk into a small smile. Dembe has them idling by the curb, the sleek sedan the only car in the empty, abandoned street. Red looks through the tinted window. Kumari’s restaurant is dimly lit, vacant, having closed for the night hours ago. The bodyguard slides out the car, knocks on the door, and with a grin on his face, is admitted entrance, is practically dragged into the establishment by Kumari’s hands, strong and wiry from slaving before the stoves. Red smiles with relief; they’re willing to open the kitchen then.

“Think of the training, the experience you could gain,” Red says, trying to entice, “The men and women you could put away, stop, the victims you could _save_ , Lizzie.” Her eyes are drawn back to his, temptation flickering in the blue, bright and tantalising. That’s all she has ever wanted, to save those in worse positions than her, stop and prevent those who manipulate and coerce innocent people.

“There are endless limitations when it comes to the law, Lizzie,” She licks her lips, looks anxious, rubs at her scar, “Limitations that won’t allow you to catch the names on my list, to stop the worst of the worst. Come with me, we’ll make it a field trip, just once, to see how you like it.”

It’s when she releases her wrist, looks out the window towards the restaurant that he knows he’s got her. She’s slumped in her chair, looking conceding, as if he has left her with no choice, the images of the victims, innocent and unknowing, flowing through her mind like a projection, he is sure. Her heart is so pure, golden, kept that way since the night of the fire, because of _Sam_. Red swallows back the fear, the taste of dread, knowing that his hands, stained with blood as they are, corrupt and destroy everything he touches. She smiles at him, wobbly and unsure, and Red knows, then, that he is too selfish to turn back now.

With a firm nod he cracks open the door to the car, slides out and moves to her side, to find that she is already standing on the street. She stutters an apology, awkward, embarrassed, not used to his social tendencies, closing the door hurriedly. He laughs, shakes his head and offers her his arm; jacket rasping against his own as she tentatively slips her arm into his. Red can’t help the way his chest tightens, twists, a feeling of euphoria weaving through his bloodstream, expanding his lungs. It’s a sign of _trust_.

Kumari greets them, loud and enthusiastic, having already shoved Dembe onto a table, piled his plate high with food. He shrugs at Raymond, as if apologising for starting without them, before returning to his meal and shovelling it down his throat. Red doubts that even a smidge of the gesture was sincere. He returns his attention to Lizzie, who is being prodded and poked by Kumari, an expression of vague alarm and discomfort on her face. She’s leaning back from the fierce little Indian woman, who currently has both of Lizzie’s hands trapped in her own, is gushing about how beautiful she is, how bright her eyes are, how soft her hair is. Red takes a step forward and Kumari turns to him, a grin so wide it splits her face. Her black hair is twisted into a bun; she wears a shawl, orange, _bright_ and flowing around her, dark kohl smudged under her eyes, a red bindi marking her forehead. She leans up and kisses Red, once on each cheek and then a lingering kiss on the lips. Lizzie shifts restlessly beside them.

“I see that you have been kind enough to open your kitchen for us, Kumari,” he exclaims, moving towards the table, peering over Dembe’s shoulder, at the fast disappearing meal he has before him. Curries and rice are spread over the plate, melding and merging, a mixture of fragrances, spices, tastes. Butter chicken, lamb korma, beef vindaloo, piled high on beds of saffron rice. Chicken tikka and vegetable samosas are pushed to the side, clear of the sauces. Most importantly, the garlic naan is a teetering mountain on a separate plate. It smells _delicious_ , the colours of the food so vibrant and bright. Lizzie is standing beside him, closer than he would have expected, as if she is nervous, finding comfort in his presence. He pulls out a chair, indicates that she should sit, which she does, and he follows suit.

The food is brought to them immediately, in delicate silver dishes and _bursting_ with flavour, not to mention capacity, the sauce sloshing onto the starched white table cloth. Kumari curses quietly in Hindu, much to Red’s amusement, she rarely ever swears. Lizzie looks at it as if she cannot possibly eat it all. Her hands are clasped in front of her on the table, as Kumari lays a napkin on Lizzie’s lap, still looking vaguely uncomfortable at the service provided. So Red makes sure that she tastes a bit of everything, serving her dish after dish even as she half-heartedly protests, a smile playing over her features that causes Red’s heart to leap with delight. He waves away the scotch that Kumari offers, ignoring Dembe’s choked noise; scotch never suits Indian anyway. Instead he asks for a mango lassi, ordering one for Lizzie as well. The small Indian woman hurries off into the kitchen, followed by the distinct roar and buzz of a blender.

“It’s two o’clock in the morning,” Lizzie states, glancing down at her phone. Red can see there are several messages she has not yet answered, Tom’s name shining back at him, turning his mood sour. She puts her phone down, doesn’t even open the texts, instead looking up at Red, a spark of amusement in her eyes. “How did you manage to get them to open the kitchen for you?”

He grins at her in response as Kumari brings over their drinks, rests her hand gently on his shoulder, gives it a squeeze, unnecessarily leaning over him to give Lizzie her lassi. She gives him a pat before disappearing off into the kitchen. Red leans forward, takes a sip of his drink, the mango so fresh and _divine_ , he can’t help but groan with pleasure. He thinks he see’s Lizzie roll her eyes as she tastes her beverage, before they widen in pleasure.

“Kumari is... rather fond of me, I must admit,” he finally responds, looking up at Lizzie as she rubs at her top lip, the creamy yellow liquid smeared across it coming off on the back of her hand. He passes her a napkin which she accepts in silence, acknowledging the gesture with a nod of her head. From that moment on they enjoy their drinks, pay the bill and wander out to the car with Dembe, Red managing to open the car door for Lizzie before she does it herself, she smiles at him shyly for that.

They drive mostly in silence, the streets flying by as Dembe speeds down the road. Lizzie is gripping onto the handle of the door; expression strained as they rocket around corners, feet splayed so as not to tip or slide onto him. Red leans forward and grips his brother’s shoulder, meets his eyes in the mirror, laughing. The rest of the drive goes by more slowly, Dembe sticking to the speed limits and Lizzie more relaxed than before. Red is glad when Dembe asks for her address, even though he and Red know every possible route to her apartment. She is a distraction tonight, putting him off his game, dulling his incredibly sharp mind with her presence. He glances at her, out of the corner of his eye, admiring her profile, darkened as it is in the car’s cabin. Lizzie rattles off the address obliviously.

When they pull up to Lizzie’s apartment, a nice neighbourhood, well lit and maintained, she waits for Red to open her door. Gripping her hand, he gently tugs her out of the vehicle and leads her up the stairs to the entrance. There is no doorman to greet them, only a rattling elevator; the doors clattering open as Lizzie jams the button. She doesn’t seem surprised that he steps in after her, just seems to huff in amusement, eyes straight ahead as they ascend the building. She is silent, stepping out and moving down the corridor when they reach level eight, Red trailing only a step behind her. She pulls a key out the pocket of her jeans, slows her gait, eyeing him from her peripheral.

“What is it?” He asks, frowning at her, she looks nervous once more.

“This field trip you were talking about, for the Blacklist, when are you planning it?”

The thought that she is still willing, trusts him enough, or merely believes that this is something that she _must_ do, the _right_ thing to do, is a relief. He isn’t ready to let her go now, not now that he knows that she _adores_ Indian, eats with delicacy that is so endearing it makes his heart ache. Not now that he has seen how she can switch from fearful, docile, to fierce, demanding. With the right training, proper mentoring, Lizzie could bring the FBI agency to its _knees_ , as an agent or a criminal, it wouldn’t matter. She is _spectacular_.

“Continue with your life; go to your classes at Quantico if you have to. I’ll come for you when it’s time, Lizzie. Send your phone number to this contact. Just be patient, these things take time,” he says, passing her a card with their current burner phone’s number.

She nods her head, briskly thanks him for the meal and turns to her door, the lock clicking as she opens it. Red bids her farewell, turns on his heel, making his way down the corridor. The fluorescent lights buzzing above him. He only turns back when hears her call his name.

“Reddington.”

Her tone is quiet, but firm, serious. She is resting with her hip against the doorframe, hand still grasping the handle, gaze flickering down to the ground, before jumping back up and resting on him. He waits patiently, can see the words rolling around in her mind, on her tongue.

“The Blacklist,” she begins, quietly, “what’s in it for you?”

His response is easy, has been since the minute she walked into that warehouse, only a client as she stood behind him, unbeknownst to him, until he turned around, met her piercing gaze.

“So much more than I thought,” he replies softly. Not waiting for her response, he tilts his fedora towards her, before turning and making his way back to Dembe, hearing the click of her door shutting as he reaches the elevator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some interaction! I hope you enjoyed the chapter, thank you all for your lovely comments! Chapter six should be up soon, it’s a bit smaller than this one, but I hope you still enjoy it!


	6. Torn Apart By A Wolf In Mask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Just a young heart confusing my mind, but we’re both in silence,  
> Wide-eyed, both in silence,  
> Wide-eyed, like we’re in a crime scene.” – Candles, Daughter
> 
> Trigger Warning; Tom Keen.

She sleeps soundly that night, a wave of exhaustion tumbling her into her sheets, pinning her to the mattress with its sheer magnitude and intensity. There had been no time to scrutinize the night, the time she spent with Reddington, to meticulously comb over the details, the anchors attached to her eyelids sinking to rest on her cheekbones, dragging her world into a peaceful darkness. Dreams plague her, not nightmares, not the fire, but they’re strange, disturbing; shadowy figures lurching towards her in the dark.

Waking in the morning, Liz looks down her body to find that she is still dressed. Her mouth is dry and she remembers that in her exhaustion she never brushed her teeth. The garlic naan taints her breath, so she heaved herself from her bed, wanders into the bathroom, piling her toothbrush high with paste. With the rhythmic strokes of the brush, the foam building and frothing, her mind strays to Reddington, everything she learned, the information she gathered, so much more than what the FBI had managed to obtain, as useless and vague as it may be. Her mind sorts and files, takes apart the scene, the moments, splits them by significance, traits and relativeness. His habits, his words, the warehouse and the restaurant; all parts of his character that she notes, remembers.

He knows her, knows her intimately, that much she is certain of. His words, the familiarity with which he spoke to her, leads her to the impression that yes, he knew her father, but he knew _her_ as well. Avoidance, deflection, he is a master of, has a talent to manipulate the conversation, turn it to his favour. She had asked questions, some of which he had vaguely answered, and hazy as they were, she’d still gathered information; he knew about the fire, perhaps even knew her biological parents. They had a history. It was the touches, brief and gentle, fleeting as they were, that solidified her beliefs. It was as if he was confirming that she was real, _there_. His eyes, so piercing and intense, unwavering in their study of her, were always drawn back to her wrist, when she rubbed it and even when she didn’t. The grief in his expression when he looked upon it, the remorse; it had been overwhelming. She lets out a shaky breath, rinses her toothbrush and drops it onto the vanity cabinet, the plastic clattering against porcelain.

Liz drifts back into her room, tugs on some fresh clothing, eyes straying to her laptop. She could try to delve further into the web, gather more intelligence, lose herself in stories she can’t confirm are true. Deciding against it, she grabs the notebook off her bedside table, begins to scrawl her thoughts into it. Notes on Reddington; as detailed as she can possibly make them. She writes how expressive he is, the careful control he has over his features. She notes that when he becomes passionate, he uses his hands, excessively, that when he tells a story his voice rises in volume. Liz isn’t sure how this information will help her, hopes that it can give her a further insight into the type of man he is. It frightens her that he can appear this kind, so gentle and friendly towards her. She is scared of the shift she might see, looks to their next meeting with apprehension, he seems so _human_. His eyes vibrant, bright, manner cordial and pleasant, nothing like the serial killers, ruthless murderers she has studied at Quantico.

A knock at the door, stark in the silence of her little apartment, has Liz jumping from her bed. She tosses the notebook onto the twisted sheets, hurries out to her front door, peering through the peephole. The bodyguard, Dembe, stands on the other side. Liz feels her gut clench, a wave of nervousness, anxiety, licking at her insides. She cracks open the door, aims to smile at the grim looking man. He doesn’t smile back, merely tilts his head at her. In his hand is a cardboard box, her name, _Lizzie_ , written on it in red.

She assumes that if they were going on this ‘fieldtrip’, beginning the Blacklist _today_ , he would be here, or would at least have given her some warning. But Reddington is not present; it’s just Dembe standing before her, offering the box out as if it’s a gift. She takes it from him hesitantly, slightly unnerved by his unwavering gaze. Slipping her thumb under the tape holding the lid down, she opens the parcel. Inside is her service weapon, freshly cleaned and shining. Relief floods her, the weight pushing down and suffocating her, since she’d lost her weapon to Slattery, disappearing. She has not alerted her superiors, is not afraid to admit that she had been in serious denial. She let the distraction of her meeting with Reddington be an excuse. And now, her gun, the familiar weight, rests in her hand, the metal warming under her skin, coming alive, and no one except her, Reddington and Dembe knew that it had been stolen. She can feel the way it buzzes in her hand, has never used it in the line of duty, but nonetheless, can feel the power it radiates. It sickens and exhilarates her.

With a nod of her head, she thanks Dembe, a part of her wanting to ask how they managed to get it back, and another whispering that she doesn’t want to know. Her thoughts briefly drift to Slattery’s daughter, her wiry little form darting through her backyard as she played soccer. Lizzie swallows, feels her mouth crack open, Dembe’s brows creasing into a frown as she asks,

“What did he do to him?”

“Mr Reddington also put a tube of arnica cream in that box, he said it would help with the bruising,” is his response, just as deflective and infuriating as his employer. Before she can demand an answer he makes his way down the corridor, not looking back. Liz shuts her front door with shaking hands, weapon gripped tightly. When she checks, she finds that the mag is full, as she’d left it. She grabs out the tube of cream from the parcel, remembering the amount of times Sam had smeared the solution over various bumps and bruises she obtained from exploring, climbing trees, falling down embankments. It still smells as bad and strong as she remembers.

Attached to the tube is a note, scrawled in red. Liz can’t help but roll her eyes at the blatant narcissistic behaviour. She places her weapon down on the kitchen counter, eyes scanning over the text. It reads that Slattery had committed no crime with the weapon. Luckily, no one would ever know she had briefly lost possession of it. There is nothing else, no contact details, no message about when they would meet for their first name on the Blacklist. Liz swallows her disappointment.

She is worried, worried that because he seems to know her so well, that he manipulated her need for justice and protection of innocents. The Blacklist could be a lie, a means to distract her, to buy her silence. He may never come for her, disappear as quickly as he came. Liz would never get the answers she knows he has, would never get the chance to take down the criminals he had rattled off, so many and so violent. And yet, if the Blacklist is _real_ , he had been sincere and genuine in including her, he would have to have an angle, or else it simply wouldn’t make _sense_. The man is irredeemable. He isn’t doing this for redemption, Liz is certain of that. Trepidation worms its way through her; Liz can’t help but wonder, if she is willing to go through with this, to continue after the first name, if she would be able to look away, ignore the obvious criminal dealings, the illegal means at which they tracked these _other_ criminals. She feels as if she is wading into dark and murky waters, unseen things slithering around her legs, tightening their hold, pinning her in the mud. Treading lightly was the only way she could survive, to make sure she didn’t slip into the depths of the underworld. She knows that she is playing with fire, literally flirting with the Devil.

It is dangerous, this path she is walking down, cliffs on either side, her balance precarious. Her yearning to understand the criminal mind is driving her, relentless. She is drawn to Reddington, can’t help it, can’t resist him. He has cultivated himself in such a way, that anyone in his presence would be captivated by him. She’d recognised that the moment she saw him in that warehouse, back to her and cigar in hand, and yet she still fell for it, the powerful and confident demeanour. It is not a facade; it is pure security, self-confidence. He is made all the more attractive by his assurance in himself, knows that the power his name carries is enough, but still enhances it with his character, appearance and manner.

Sam had always laughed at her, joked about her obsessive nature. When she found something that peaked her interest, sparked the unquenchable thirst for knowledge that she possessed, she would follow it ruthlessly, like a bloodhound on a scent. As a young girl, if she found a book series she liked, she’d read and read into the early hours of the morning, until her eyes were bloodshot and Sam had walked in for the hundredth time to tell her to get some sleep, that he could see her flash light on the walls, the torch cradled wobbly in her hands as she turned the pages. He’d already turned off her bedroom light the twentieth time, her bedside lamp the fiftieth.

She remembers that Sam had let her do as many sports as she liked, and she would strive to be the best, no matter what it was, judo, hockey, horse riding, _anything_ she was allowed to do. At Quantico, in class when they would study certain criminals, types and individuals, Liz would go above and beyond what was necessary for her assignments. She needed to know what _drove_ people like the ones they studied, how they turned down such a dark and incorrigible lifestyles. Liz was never a quiet child; she would pursue anything that took her fancy with passion. That still hadn’t changed, not when she went to college, or when she began with the FBI, and not now. She cradles her head in her hands, running her fingers through her hair.

She knows that Reddington will be no different.

If Liz spends time around him, she will evaluate and scrutinize everything he says, all of his actions, everything he _does_. She will attempt to unravel the enigma he has proven to be, try to understand what drives a man, a sinner, such as him. It doesn’t help that she knows that, in his company, she will meet other criminals, will be able to dissect them in a way similar. The potential information she could gather, the data, is tantalising. Liz feels as if she is an addict, wonders what occurred in her early childhood that drives her to the extremes she is willing to go to today. Whether it is a trait of her biological parents, or an occurrence in her earliest of years, she will never know.

Finally, for the first time in months, she drags her curtains apart, daylight spreading through her apartment as if it had never been blocked out. The clouds are thick, the light not bright and sunny, but almost silvery and cold, the light of autumn. Cars are alive in the city below, pedestrians so small from where they stroll along the sidewalks. Dust particles dance around her, floating through the air weightlessly. The room looks brighter, making Liz realise that she should have stopped lurking in the dark, nursing her grief, far earlier than she has. Sam would be exasperated with her, would have wanted to her move on by now. She still is uncertain if she ever will, the pang in her chest only making that realisation harsher. Liz wonders what Sam would think of her meeting with Reddington, wonders what his opinion of the Concierge of Crime had been, whether he trusted the man, the criminal. The photos, a box full of them, she’d brought back from Sam’s, grabs her attention, tucked against her couch, a beacon in her apartment, a promise for possible answers.

It’s covered in dust. The months ago that she had dumped it in that spot, tears glazing her eyes, she hadn’t been able to look at them, to see her father smiling up at her. The pain had been too much. Now, now she thinks she may be able to browse through them, that it may lessen the ache in her chest. Opening up the box, loose photos, thick albums, are piled high. She grabs the stacks first, flicks through the photos she already has, Sam had always insisted on having two copies, had made sure she took them with her to college, when she moved out. It is when she reaches the older photos, the younger images of Sam that she slows down. She knows what she is looking for, won’t admit it to herself as her eyes scan the captured memories. Part of her yearns for the closure, to just _understand_ what Sam had been involved in, but the other revolts against the idea, knowing it would only lead to more questions. No matter the danger it may put her in, she hopes that Reddington is lying, that he never knew her father, at least personally. The ache in her chest deepens, makes her feel hollow as she stares down at the Polaroid between her fingers.

Jade eyes stare back at her, as they did last night, set into such a younger face. His hair is long, shaggy almost, hanging before his eyes. A grin, lopsided and relaxed, is spread across his face, stubble gracing his features. His arm is slung over Sam’s shoulders. They look drunk, especially her father, his blue eyes hazy. Reddington is not as composed as he was the night before, his attire not a three-piece suit, but a cardigan and jeans. There is no fedora at all. Lizzie can’t work out where they are, the photo entirely focussed on them. It confirms Reddington’s claim; that he and Sam had been old friends. Her lungs expand with betrayal, exhaled shakily through her nose. Sam is gazing up at her, smiling at her like he had all throughout her childhood. She wonders what else he had hidden from her, needs the reassurance, that he was the honest man she had always thought him to be. The Polaroid falls from her fingers, rests on the carpet by her feet. She sits there for hours, sorting through the photos, searching and searching. There are no other images of Reddington, no other evidence. Her back is pressed against the couch as she stares off into the room, seeing nothing.

Buzzing, unrelenting and obnoxiously _loud_ fills the silence, her phone rattles on the table where she left it. She drags her body over to it, aching as she stands. The screen is lit up with Tom’s name; she’s been ignoring his messages over the past day, had told him she would be busy. Her thumb glides over the screen, forcing brightness into her voice that isn’t there. His own voice is crackled over the speaker, but he sounds happy to have gotten a hold of her. She smiles despite herself, the Polaroid at her feet, the Concierge of Crime, forgotten from her mind, if for a moment. He’s asking if she wants to come over, watch a movie, eat some takeout. Liz can’t think of a better distraction, agrees quickly.

Tom has a small apartment, a half hour drive from Liz. The area is a bit to be desired, the neighbours loud and rowdy, the building itself slightly rundown, but Tom’s apartment is well furnished, cosy and clean. He’s currently saving up money to purchase a house, speaks about it with excitement each time they meet. The eagerness to get his life started, Liz can understand, the stagnancy of being single, or even while being engaged with Nick, is and was exhausting. Liz is ready to buy a house, marry, to start a family. Her career is well underway, apart from the current complications, and Liz is excited to settle, to have a life she has always dreamed of. She can’t help that her mind strays to Reddington, a promise that her life will be anything but settled and normal for the immediate future.

She knocks on the door, the chill of the corridor creeping through her clothes. He opens it immediately, all goofy smile and bright eyes. Liz wonders if his energy, boundless as it seems, ever wanes, ends. It truly doesn’t seem so as he drags her inside, boyish in his delight of seeing her. The house is typical of a single man, though tidier than most, there are stray pieces of clothing haphazardly thrown in a pile in a corner. Liz knows that if she were to open the fridge she’d most likely find an expired carton of milk, and a six-pack of beers. She’s already had that experience, packing away their leftovers one evening.

He asks how her day was, which she vaguely responds to, Reddington a stark image in her mind, grinning at her, as she claims that she did nothing all day, a bit of paperwork is all. It’s enough for Tom, as he bursts into a story about his class and the mischief they got up to during the day. Liz watches as he speaks, only stopping to let the delivery boy in. He begins serving their food; more Chinese. He is so innocent, honest; a man that’s main concern in life is that he avoids contracting nits from his students and that the ones with peanut allergies are carefully monitored during lunch break. Tom is _normal_ , fun, entertaining. Liz takes a deep breath, relaxes back into normality, even as her phone is seemingly searing into her skin, waiting anxiously for Reddington to call.

They eat their meals, Liz’s attention, as much as she tries to focus, only half-heartedly on Tom. He seems to notice, and when she apologises, he says not to worry, that they can relax and watch a movie. She smiles at him, agrees with the idea, cuddles up on the couch as Tom fossicks through his collection. He turns to her, all easy charm and smiles, not even slightly offended.

“You pick the movie though.”

In the end, even though Liz picks a movie that she knows she will actually _enjoy_ , they get thoroughly distracted, stumbling back to Tom’s bedroom, in a haze of lust. When Liz wakes to go to the loo during the night, the title menu of the film is still blaring obnoxiously loud music. She switches it off, returning back to bed, staying well to her side of the mattress. It’s just _too hot_ to cuddle.

Her phone, vibrating in her jean pocket wakes her from her slumber. Reddington is the first thought through her mind and she lunges towards her pile of clothing, heedless of Tom snoring beside her. The number is blocked and for a moment Liz sits on the side of the bed, wonders if she should answer it. She grips the phone tighter as the vibrating stops, a missed call notification shining up at her. Dread fills Lizzie, the possibility that he may only call once fogging her mind. She scoops up her clothing, dresses hastily, only spares a thought for Tom when she trips over his shoes at the door; leather and dusty from the schoolyard. Guilt settles in her stomach, not wanting to be the girl who stayed the night and then ran. Her phone begins to vibrate in her hand, relief flooding her system washing out the guilt almost immediately. She bends down, draws a love-heart in the dust of Tom’s shoe and disappears through the door, answering the phone as she goes.

“Hello?”

She can’t help the smile that creeps onto her face, tries to school her features into neutrality, as his jovial voice greets her. The cold breeze washes over her as she steps out to her car.

“Good morning, Lizzie, up for that fieldtrip I mentioned?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N; Hope you enjoyed the chapter and that the holidays we just had were most enjoyable! Thank you all so much for your continued support! Chapter Seven is on its way!


	7. You Run With The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “As you lay to die beside me, baby  
> On the morning that you came,  
> Would you wait for me?” – Your Protector, Fleet Foxes

After sliding into the car, eyes drifting to the lit windows in the apartments on the eighth floor, looking for Lizzie’s room, he sees only darkness. Either her curtains are still drawn, a barricade to the outside world, battling against the chill of the autumn night, or she has already retired, dawn being only a few hours away, tucked away and safe in bed. Red tilts his head up, stares at the felt roof of the car, breathes deeply, knowing that sleep will not be found tonight, that he will watch another sunrise. Dembe merges out onto the road. Red knows he doesn’t have to tell his friend where to go, his brother already having guessed.

The nightlife is still buzzing around them as they enter into the nightclub strip, Foydor’s establishment boasting a significant line-up, all young men and women, drunk, high or designated drivers, standing in the brisk wind. The alcohol, the drugs, flushes their cheeks red, the girls not cold into their tight dresses and revealing skirts. Those sober were easy to spot, rugged up warm and generally with a look of distaste and impatience on their features. Red remembers when Lizzie would occasionally go clubbing, dressing up for a night out, only to usually return home early, having assignments due the next week. That had been years ago, she hadn’t gone out for a night on the town for quite a while now, much to the disgust of some of the younger tails had Red had organised to follow her. When they pull up to the curb, some of the patrons turn with bleary eyes to look at the sleek sedan, the man stepping out of it, old, but obviously wealthy.

He and Dembe make their way to the head of the queue, ignoring the shouts and heckling from the younger adults around them, furious that they are cutting the line, pushing ahead, while they stand in the cold, sobering far too quickly. None of them dare to reach out however, Red and Dembe easily breezing past them, their power, authority, seeming so obviously _dangerous_ , quelling all threats of uprising. The bouncer, a giant of a man with tattooed knuckles and a neck so thick it reminds Red of an alarmingly large python he saw in the rainforests of Brazil, takes a look at Red before cracking open the door and admitting them into the club. Shouts of protest can be heard from outside before the heavy lock clicks shut behind them, the only sound now is the deafening, thunderous music, blaring through the sound-system. Bodies fill the dance floor, jostling and dancing, swaying and chatting, screaming, above the music. Some eyes are still drawn to Red, women eyeing his clothing, stature, giggling amongst their friend’s, shoving each other to go approach him. He graces them with a smile as he ascends the stairs, Dembe a step behind.

The door opens under his hand, the room falling silent as he steps past the threshold. It’s dimly lit; smoke wafting around the men occupying the couches, the bar. Fyodor sits, the centre of attention, on a bar stool, a drink in hand. He is frozen, as are the rest of the men and employees, staring at Red, fear rippling over their features. Drinks warm in hands, ash floats to the floor from unattended cigars and cigarettes, while Red stands there, expression blank. Images flicker over the excessive amount of televisions lining the walls, the bass from below purring through the carpeted floors. Fyodor clears his throat, stands, hand straying to his side. Red feels Dembe, standing so close, shift, his hand falling to his own weapon. As one, the rest of the men, the men that grovel and beg for Fyodor’s attention, stand and exit the room. Not willing to deal with the bigger fish in the criminal world, to wade into the darkest and murkiest of waters where the terrible creatures, blind and hideous, lurk. Red occasionally nods at the one’s that manage to meet his eyes, slightly amused as they skitter way.

Fyodor indicates to the barman, who stands frozen, dishcloth hanging wet and dripping from his hand, to get Red a drink. He jumps to action, busying himself with getting cubes of ice as the two men focus on the other. Red strolls over to the couch, pulls out a cigar as he sits, and begins the process of lighting it. Fyodor watches him, with bated breath, looking ill at ease, though this is his building, his establishment. His eyes flicker to Dembe, who stands like a statue, a gargoyle, by the door, guarding Red, watching Fyodor. The tip ignites in a burst of flame, the smoke curling up to the ceiling, into the air vents. The barman makes his way over; scotch in hand, ice clinking in the glass, in the silence. Red nods at him, takes a drag of his cigar and meets Fyodor’s eyes. He smiles.

“I’ll need you to contact Alexander, Fyodor,” he states, leaning back against the couch, arm thrust out so it runs along the top of the frame. His legs are crossed, fedora still atop his head. “I’ll need to speak with him tonight. Tell him to bring the weapon he stole.”

Fyodor nods his head, brows drawn into a frown as he pulls out a mobile and dials a number; talks briefly on the phone, both his hands and voice are shaky. Hanging up, he nods at Red, a smile, one that is supposed to be appeasing, dances across his features. Red just stares at him, expression as blank as Dembe’s.

“He’ll be here in twenty minutes or so,” Fyodor asserts, seeking out another drink from his bar. His eyes skitter away when Red nods his head once, his lips twisting. They are plunged into silence once more, Red watching as Fyodor squirms, so uncomfortable in his presence. The man is young, an entrepreneur, establishing a business of funnelling drugs through his nightclubs, expanded now after Red funded him a few years ago. He thinks of himself as a gangster at times, though he doesn’t have the stomach for such things, the willpower nor the darkness. The money he makes he spends on women, on cars, meaningless things that do nothing to enhance his business and everything to boost his ego. Fyodor is cheap, a scab, willing to spend money on himself, nothing else, nothing that may be beneficial in the long term. Red thinks him ignorant and arrogant.

“The young lady you so nonchalantly gave my contact to,” Red begins, tilting his head to the side, smiling at him, all teeth and glinting eyes, “What did she have to say?”

“Look, Red,” he stutters, “If she turned out to be a hassle, I’m really sorry. She said she was in a bad way, abusive husband and all that.”

“She isn’t married.”

Tom Keen explodes into his thoughts, the man who compromised his job to be closer to the woman he had been trailing. The man who took money from Red to watch from afar, protect, and then another, an unknown who wants information on Lizzie, someone who may want to use her as leverage. Tom Keen, so willing to betray Red and worm his way into Lizzie’s life, to pursue a relationship, to live a _lie_ , to be closer to _her_. He has become infatuated with her, cares for her. Red knows that Tom Keen is many things, but Lizzie’s husband he is not. He never would be. A man as besotted as he would never hurt her either. And if he did, his death would be tortuously long, excruciating.

“She isn’t even named Emma Lang,” Red continues, tone so uncaring, indifferent, as if he isn’t talking about Lizzie, the woman that has the power to change _everything_. “Even the name she gave my people was faked. She was a spy, an informant.”

He pales significantly at that, eyes glancing over to Dembe, assuring that his weapon is still holstered. As he begins to stumble over a meaningless apology, eyes wide, Red raises a finger to his lips. The younger man falls silent instantly; the beer cradled in his grasp trembling, the liquid shuddering. Red lets out a sigh, his eyes sliding shut, shaking his head in exasperation. He leans forwards, taps his cigar into the ash tray, takes a sip of his drink, visibly grimaces when Fyodor barks out a question, his voice high pitched and hysterical.

“What’d you do to her?”

Dembe shifts and Red spots the smirk that flickers over his usually stoic features. He has to resist rolling his own eyes, instead meeting Fyodor’s, wondering whether this man is feeling guilt, knows that he may have sent a woman, no matter that she is an informant, to her death. There should not be a trace of regret on his features, if he wishes to be the hardened criminal he appears to his inferiors, the men that crowd around him, buy him drinks, he needs to be ruthless, callous. Fyodor stares back at him, looking for all the world as if he wishes he never spoke.

“She has been dealt with,” Red replies with a shrug of his shoulders, “Now, dear Fyodor, if you give out my contact to any strangers that you have not vetted again I’ll be forced to deal with you in a similar manner.”

He simultaneously sags in reliefs and pales further, the threat hanging before them, the blunder he made, if he were to make another, as sure as a bullet in his chest. Red nods his head firmly, eyes glancing around the interior of the room. It’s ghastly, all modern, leather and stinking of testosterone, the furniture tacky, dirty. Women are objectified in the posters that grace the walls, naked or clad in scraps of material. Crude notes are scrawled over the glossy photos, a way for Fyodor to remember his visitors’ wit and humour. Red eyes it all with distaste, the bowl of cocaine that sits before him however, is tempting, the white powder like the snow that will surely cover the city in a few weeks time. Instead he raises his glass of scotch, takes a long drink, all but ignoring Fyodor’s presence. The music rumbles beneath them, the bass in tune with the steady beat of his heart. Minutes tick by, each of the men in the room focussed on the door, waiting for it to crack open.

And then it does, admitting Alexander Slattery, eyes darting around the room and settling on Red. He is nervous, as he should be, stepping past the threshold. Fingers anxiously tug at his clothing, revealing the bulk of Lizzie’s gun, tucked into the waistband of his trousers. Red has had little to no dealings with Slattery, only knows the man because he has been in business with Fyodor, heard when he was busted for illegal documents, carted off to jail. He looks to be a man of weak disposition, fidgety and distracted easily, making Red wonder how he was before he was thrown into prison, how he was changed while caged with other, darker, criminals, how he possibly _survived_.

Fyodor stares at the other man stonily, not saying a word. He offers no drink, no seat, and so Red stands, smiling arms spread wide as if going to embrace the man. Instead of doing so he indicates the couch, watches with mild amusement as Slattery stumbles over to it. As he sits, eyeing both Red and Dembe warily, he untucks the weapon, quickly places it on the table before him. Red just looks at it, features pulled into a smile. The gun glints, even in the darkened room, as clean as one of Sam’s, Lizzie having the same etiquette as her father. A feeling of pride rises in Red, looking at that weapon, immaculate and cared for. Sam had been an incredible father, his traits embedded into Lizzie, a piece of him living on in her.

With a nod of thanks Red scoops up the gun, weighs it in his hand. He checks the chamber, finds it full of ammunition. The weapon has not been fired, and if it has, Slattery has replaced the bullet. Red believes it to be the former. Dembe takes a step forward, grabs the gun as Red offers it to him, before merging back into the shadows, waiting silent. He is tired, Red knows, he will sleep deeply tomorrow, will most likely ask Red to stay in doors for the day, though he would willingly follow if that did not suit. Always indulgent in regard to Dembe, Red is already planning a day on the couch, book in hand.

“Have you used this weapon?” Red asks, reassuring himself. If this gun had been used to commit a crime, Lizzie’s career would be over, she could face jail time. The mere thought has Red making plans to smuggle her out of the country, putting contingencies in place, assuring her safety.

Slattery vehemently shakes his head, jowls wobbling beneath his thick beard. His eyes are honest, wide and bulging as they are. Red notices the scabs marring the skin of his knuckles, rough and cracked, only just healing. Pulling out his own weapon, Red aims his gun between Slattery’s eyes, feels his finger itch on the trigger as he remember the shades of purple, and black and yellow, marring Lizzie’s delicate features. The other man pushes his back into the couch, the leather almost engulfing him. His legs are spread wide, splayed, as if unsure as to which way to propel himself away from Red, away from the bullet waiting for him.

“The girl you attacked,” Red interrogates, voice quiet and cold, deadly, “what do you know about her?”

“I swear, I don’t know nothing! She was following me! All day! Sat out the front of my house, followed me to the shops!” He blathers; face red with panic, “I ignored her best as I could! She’s just a young girl, but then she followed me here... and I panicked, worried she might have been with the feds. I didn’t want to hurt her, honest! I never meant to lead her here!”

Red laughs at him, lowers his weapon, tucks it back into his holster. Slattery visibly relaxes, though his fingers are curled around the leather of the couch, his nails most likely embedded in the material. He even manages a shaky smile as Red grins at him, moving forwards, not noticing the way Fyodor takes a step backwards, looks away from them to the bar. Dembe still stands by the door; Red can feel his eyes burning into the already scorched skin of his back, every movement of every person in the room under the gaze of his hawk-like eyes. The music has stopped, the hour having passed that of even the most veteran of nightclubbers. Silence, it is eerie now; the only bass the beat of his heart, throbbing in his chest, as he assesses the man before him.

He is close enough now and lunges for the collar of Slattery’s jumper, hauls him forward. Bones crunch beneath his fist, hot blood spilling down the front of Slattery, spattering onto the sleeves of Red’s suit jacket. A constant, steady rhythm is set, the sound wet as Slattery pleads, gurgles through a mouth full of blood, for him to stop. Jab after jab Red grits his teeth, his fist aching. He only stops when Slattery falls unconscious, slumping sideways on the couch. Red straightens, looks down at the man before him, face in ruins, the blood pooling on the leather. Turning to Fyodor he finds that the man has faced away, is staring at the bar, posture rigid. Red clenches and unclenches his throbbing fist, feels his newly acquired wounds split and spill blood of their own.

“Don’t let it happen again,” he demands, striding past Dembe and into the emptying club. There are few patrons left, being carried out by their companions, too intoxicated to stand on their own feet. The bouncers watch from afar, expressions blank, bored. Red ignores them all, heading straight for the car, Dembe following closely behind.

As they drive back to their latest safe house, the sun is cracking open the horizon, the stars losing their shine in the daylight. The sky is indigo, cloudy and cold, even as light rays peek into the waking world, promising warmth. The city is seemingly coming alive once more, the early risers jogging along the streets, walking their dogs, all preparing for another day. Red can see the dark rings beneath Dembe’s eyes, heavy lidded in the rear view mirror. They’ll be at the apartment soon, where the younger man can rest; sleep away the exhaustion that clings to him. Red will be sure to have a breakfast waiting for him, no matter the time of day.

When they pull into the garage, make their way to the elevator in silence, Red is acutely aware of the ache in his fist. Dembe’s eyes are drawn to it, shaking his head in exasperation as the elevator dings open, admitting them to their floor. Red just smirks at him, clenching and unclenching his fist once more.

“Have you broken anything?” Dembe asks; his voice so deep, rumbling along the empty corridor as they approach their door. With the swipe of their key card it opens, hands resting on weapons as they step into their room, like always. The space is empty, neat and tidy, the cleaners having been. Red flicks the lights on as they wander into the living room.

“No, just split the skin, I’ll be fine,” Red replies, smiling as Dembe, nods and then disappears into his room, not wasting any time on catching up on his lost sleep. He makes his way over to the kitchen, where they stash their frequently replenished medical supplies. Pulling out the swabs and bandages, Red sighs to himself, sitting on the bar stool, leaning on the kitchen bench. He remembers a time when Sam would sit across from him, complaining that Red could never manage to clean his wounds and bandage them efficiently. It had frustrated them both endlessly, Sam constantly nagging and Raymond never getting it right, too sloppy when it came to looking after himself. When Sam was wounded however, Red’s stitches had never been so perfect, the cuts and slices meticulously cleaned and sewn.

He hisses as the alcohol swab brushes over the tender and open flesh. It stings something chronic, but Red makes sure that the cuts, from Slattery’s teeth, are cleaned, for Sam. His hand is slightly swollen now, purpling with bruises, but it’s still fully functional, he has complete movement. It is easy to grab his scotch and that is essentially all that matters as Red pours himself a glass, moving over to the seat that looks out over the city. He watches the sun rise over the towering buildings, the light slithering up and across the concrete, watches the morning commute trundle below. The text alert from the phone Dembe left on the counter has him rising from his station at the window. It’s an update on Lizzie’s movements; she has not left the house.

She is most likely curled up in her bed, the events of last night streaming through her mind. Perhaps she is still sleeping, like Dembe, after her late night. He is well aware that Lizzie will profile him to the best of her abilities, agonise over ever detail. She would analyse and attempt to decipher everything about him. A thrill of anticipation runs through him, to have her attention, piercing and intense, entirely focussed on him. Even as a young girl her attention had been unwavering, blue eyes so passionate.

Noise from within Dembe’s room has him moving to the kitchen, preparing a breakfast of porridge, piled high with berries, bananas and topped with cinnamon and drizzled in honey. The smell is enough to make the younger man emerge from his room, a small smile on his face as he sits on the kitchen stool, Red pushing the bowl across the counter. It is so reminiscent of their earlier times together, when Dembe had still be such a young boy, just coming into his own, leaving behind the horrors of his past. He digs in hungrily, Red doing the washing up with a pleased smile on his face.

“I assume you’d like me to drop Elizabeth’s weapon at her apartment?” questions Dembe, scraping at the bowl with his spoon, looking at the gun on the counter beside him. Red nods his head, fossicks in the medical supplies and procures a tube of arnica cream, placing it next to the weapon.

“Tell her that this should help with the bruising,” he states, grabbing a nearby pen, with red ink, and scrawling a note to Lizzie. Dembe scoops up the piece of paper, weapon and cream, heading off into the suite to find a box to fit it all in. Red continues to scrub at the pan, the mushy porridge floating around his fingers. He waves at Dembe as he passes through the kitchen, already leaving for Lizzie’s, the door clicking shut behind him. Drying and placing the saucepan in its designated cupboard, Red makes his way over to his chair. Plunged into a peaceful silence once more, the hum of the traffic below the only sound, his thoughts drift; refining memories, contemplating the future, minutes ticking by.

Until one of their numerous phones begins to buzz, drawing his attention. He heaves himself from the seat by the window, makes his way over to the box, phones plugged into chargers, stacked high in their container. Dembe always makes sure that these specific phones, designated to specific numbers of _essential_ associates and contacts, is always within easy reach. Whether he tucks and straps them to his body, or keeps them in the glove compartment of the car, Red always has access to them. The phone, flashing up at him, rattling on its companions, is Marvin Gerard’s.

“Marv, what do I owe the pleasure?” Red answers jovially, striding over to the window, staring out across the city. It is a rare thing, to receive a call from Marvin, especially now, with all that is occurring with his son, Timothy; a young boy, struggling and lost in a world of drugs, bad influences, ignoring the guidance of his father and constantly bullied by his mother.

“I was thinking about what we discussed earlier in the week, Red,” he begins, direct and to the point, his voice still croaky over the line, “About turning yourself in for the girl. You can’t risk that, there is not even the _slightest_ possibility that they won’t just lock you up on the spot, no matter what you’re willing to bribe them with and no matter what she means to you. As your attorney, like I said last week, I fervently suggest that you _do not do this_.”

“Not to worry Marv, it’s all been dealt with,” Red replies, shifting his weight slightly. The door behind him opens, admitting Dembe; Lizzie’s apartment is only a twenty minute drive away. He nods his head, heads to the kitchen for a second breakfast; Red is sure that if he didn’t keep the other man busy, all Dembe _would_ do is eat. He refocuses his attention on Marvin, blabbering in his ear.

“What do you mean dealt with?”

“It won’t be necessary to turn myself into the FBI.”

“Why? The girl, Elizabeth, what about her? I thought you said she was in danger?” He questions, sounding almost panicked. Red grins, knows that Lizzie immediately sent her number to Dembe, is perhaps awaiting his call at this moment. She’d always been eager as a young child, seizing opportunities when they presented themselves and hounding after them, focused and fierce.

“Because she found me,” he says, cutting Marvin’s reply off with, “So good to hear from you, Marv. If you need anything at all, just call.”

He turns to Dembe expectantly, eyebrows raised, phone clasped in his hand, dangling by his side. Toast leaps up from the toaster, golden and hot, Dembe delicately grabbing them between the tips of his fingers and tossing them onto a plate. The younger man has smirk playing at his lips; on occasion he enjoys making Raymond wait, until he is almost squirming, expecting answers to questions he hasn’t voiced. He butters the toast heavily, takes his time. When he reaches for the jam the smirk peels into a smile when Red finally bursts, voice laced with frustration, asking,

“How is she?”

“Her face is looking much improved, compared to Alexander Slattery’s.”

Red laughs, nods his head, saunters over to the kitchen bench and snags a slice of toast, ignoring Dembe’s indignant protests as he makes his way back over to his chair. Lizzie’s image stark in his mind, the purple smears on her defined features makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. The constant surveillance Lizzie has always been under, at one point in Red’s life, had been _enough_. He’d felt close, in a way, a vigil and silent protector; tugging at strings when needed, a helping hand in times of strife. It had been enough. Now, it simply isn’t. Not only has Lizzie been injured, attacked so brutally, has had peril enter her life, in the form of both Tom Keen and her search for answers, ultimately leading her to Red, but she has met him, had dinner with him, _conversed_ with him. She has proven to Red that she has grown up to be all that Sam had dreamed of, intelligent and driven, fierce and wise. Lizzie has the potential to do _anything_ , and the Blacklist gives Red the opportunity to show her the talents she so surely possesses.

As if reading his mind, startling him from the vacancy his eyes have found, thoughts focused inwards, Dembe drops a manila folder on to his lap, yellow and well used. It contains documents on potential Blacklister’s they have decided upon; trophy hunters, drug dealers, smugglers, all sorts of dark and mysterious people, those who were simply competition and those who have answers, answers to questions that have plagued Reddington for years. He sifts through them, eyes scanning for something simple, a person or organisation that would whet Lizzie’s appetite, tempt her thirst for justice. Red does not want to lead them to someone overly dangerous, overwhelming, not yet, not until he knows what she is capable of in the field.

The sun is setting, name after name being flicked past, Red gnawing on the inside of his lip, a glass of scotch beside him. Dembe is spread out on the couch, focussed entirely on the television, having called room service instead of cooking. The lights of the city are beginning to shine in the twilight, sparkling up at them. Red turned the lamp, positioned in the corner of the room, on as the sun sank behind the skyscrapers. It easily illuminates the face of his newest target, the first name on the Blacklist.

Marlo Gavon. A fat man, with rosy red cheeks, yellowed teeth and a head of greasy, thinning hair. His eyes are the colour of ice, cold and emotionless. Red knows that his arms are scarred with track marks, a time when his business was an addiction, before he kicked the habit, realising more money could be made out of selling the product than using it. The business he began soon expanded from smuggling drugs across the border of the USA to sending and receiving shipments from overseas, to not dealing only with drugs, but weapons and prostitution as well. Gavon is sneaky, intuitive, has been stealing and disrupting the harbours and wharfs Red uses to get his own shipments. A minor pain in the side, but a pain nonetheless, and though he could be easily dealt with without Red being present, he is the perfect bait to snare Lizzie’s interest.

Suddenly, Dembe is clearing his throat, standing in front of him and looking uncomfortable. Red places the document on the floor. Eyeing the mobile held loosely in Dembe’s hand, he asks what has happened. There is no apprehension in Red’s voice; the younger man looks exasperated, if anything. He doesn’t say a word, just passes Reddington the phone, image already lit up on the screen.

She has gone to Tom’s house, has yet to leave, even as the hour grows later. There is only one image of her, striding into his apartment building, rugged up warm for the cooler weather. Her hair is tangled by the brisk wind. The next photo is of a delivery man, from Wing Yee, a plastic bag filled with food in one hand. His own attire is cheap and thin, doing nothing to shield him from the bitter chill of the night, the curse of being a delivery boy. There are no other images, nor messages. Red sends one of his own, wanting an immediate update when she leaves the house.

He sits in his chair, drinking his scotch, waiting for the text that lets him know that she didn’t stay the night with him, didn’t sleep in the same bed with a man that was manipulating, betraying, her trust. As far as he knew, their relationship hadn’t grown to such a level of intimacy that they had been sleeping together, have only been dating, officially, for a couple of weeks. The night crawls into the early hours of the morning, Red’s glass having been refilled for the umpteenth time. There has still been no message, the phone sitting in his lap, dark. Dembe retired hours earlier, briefly squeezing Red’s shoulder as he went.

As the first rays of light creep across the sky, Red flicks through the contacts on the phone, though he mostly has her number memorised by now. His finger hovers over the call button, aware that it is so early in the morning, that she would surely not appreciate the call, especially if she is cuddled up with Keen, lazy after her possible night of exertions. He stands abruptly, makes himself a coffee, thick and black, the rich aroma wafting throughout the room. Dembe makes himself known, giving Red a grim smile as he serves himself. Raymond knows that there are dark circles beneath his eyes, that his suit is rumpled. He hasn’t sleep at all, having sat in that chair hoping to drink himself into oblivion, to find out that his body simply refused to cave in to the exhaustion, the phone sitting in his lap seemingly electrocuting him each time his eyes drifted closed. There had been the possibility she might leave, however slim.

The noise of morning television fills the apartment, causing Red to focus on the chaos of the world around him, instead of the rioting in his mind, if only briefly. When the screen is filled with adverts, the volume seemingly rising of its own accord, the voices so loud, Red gives in. He slips the phone out of his pocket, dials the number, lets it ring on and on and on until it cuts out, so abrupt and final. Dembe is watching him steadily, looking away when Red dials the number once again, knows that he is seemingly desperate, feels foolishly pathetic. The face of Marlo Gavon stares up at him from its spot on the coffee table; he’s doing this for more than _one_ reason.

When she answers, Red can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. He’s aware that Dembe’s phone, one of the many, received a message, and focuses his attention on the image on the screen. She’s leaving Tom’s house, stepping out into the blustering autumn wind, phone pressed to her cheek.

“Good morning, Lizzie, up for that fieldtrip I mentioned?”

She answers instantly, voice slightly breathless, even though Red can tell she is aiming for business-like, professional. He begins moving to his room, tugging at the tie still around his neck.

“Yes, of course. I’m just leaving Tom’s house now. Where would you like to meet?”

He rattles off the name of a coffee shop near her apartment, bids her goodbye and hangs up the phone. Stepping into his bedroom, the bed made and untouched for the past two nights, he grabs out a clean suit, rubs a hand over his face. He needs to shave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the read, would love to hear what you thought of the chapter! Eight is well on its way and should be up in a couple of days.


	8. And The Whole Of Him Cascades Through My Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Now we're both in the room,  
> And we're breathing the fumes,  
> No doors this time, just a gap in the roof,  
> Life floods in, heaven, we're blind,  
> And slowly suffocating, we're dying.” – Smoke, Daughter

The coffee shop Reddington wants to meet at is conveniently near her apartment, only a short walk. She hurries home from Tom’s, resting her mobile on her lap, should Reddington ring back, change plans. Washington is well awake, the morning traffic manic, horns and shouting, impatient people, worried about being late and then wanting nothing but to leave and go home when they get to their dead-end jobs. Liz taps her fingers on her steering wheel, entirely focussed on her meeting with Reddington, the questions she is going to ask, how far she is willing to push him. Her stomach is curling into a knot, anxiousness seeping into her body, tightening her muscles. She is meeting, once more, with a wanted criminal, one of the _best_ criminals, and now in a public setting. Liz is all too aware of her FBI badge, tucked into the drink compartment of her car, the golden lettering so bright. She flips it around, now seeing only the black leather, not reminding her of her infidelity.

Her phone buzzes when she pulls open the door to her apartment; a message from Tom. She ignores it, doesn’t bother to even open it, instead rushing to the bathroom for a shower, bathing and drying herself quickly, tugging on fresh clothing. As she is running her fingers through her damp, tangled locks, she spots her gun, resting where she left it on her kitchen counter. Without thought she snatches it up, shoves it into the waistband of her jeans; she did not need to contemplate taking it with her, she is going to see a notorious criminal, who is going to lead her to _other_ notorious criminals. A gun is entirely necessary, even to a visit in a coffee shop.

The cool wind of autumn whisks around her, tugging at the scarf wrapped around her neck. Halloween decorations can be seen poking out of shops, houses; all manners of ghastly creatures propped up in windows so that they peer out at her, menacing and creepy. She smiles, wonders if she will manage to celebrate this year, or instead focus on the work she has been sent by her professors at Quantico; she knows it will be the latter, and doesn’t mind all that much, will most likely just put a spooky movie on and do her work like the previous year.

It is not surprising to Liz that the cafe Reddington has chosen is the only one down the street that is without decorations. He most certainly does not strike her as a man to enjoy such festivities. When she steps into the bustling establishment, warm and cosy, the chatter loud over the squealing and hissing of the coffee machine, she spots him immediately. The fedora adorning his head, the suave suit, perfectly polished shoes and glistening watch, all seemingly so out of place in the quaint shop. Dembe sits beside him, stoic and unmoving, eyes shifting around the room, always alert for danger. Liz would have thought the man to be of little emotion and, perhaps, personality, if it weren’t for the towering hot chocolate that sat before him, piled high with cream and marshmallows. She eyes it sceptically as Reddington stands at her approach, a grin spread wide across his face, eyes gleaming.

“Lizzie!” He says brightly, pulling out a chair and guiding her into it, a coffee being placed on the table almost immediately. She thanks the staff member, startled by the instantaneous service as Reddington retakes his seat. There are dark rings under his eyes, the man looks exhausted, though his clothing is as crisp and flawless as the last time she saw him. The grey of his suit, the material almost shiny, makes his skin, tanned already, seem a shade darker. Even without his cigar and scotch, he looks to be a sophisticated and refined man, settling for only the finest in life. It is when he rests his hands on the wooden table top, gently pushing Dembe’s drink to the side, that she notices the bandage wrapped around his hand. He notices where her gaze is drawn immediately, his face falling impassive, emotionless.

“What happened to your hand?” She asks, eyes jumping from his injury to his eyes. He simply stares back at her, smile spreading over his face, though appearing more fake now, like a grimace. The fingers on his wounded hand curl slightly, rubbing at the edge of the bandage they are able to reach. Liz knows that to achieve such a level of bruising, to manage to split the skin on his knuckles, he would have had to punch something or someone with considerable force. Reaching for the mug, she takes a gulp of her coffee, hoping to wash away the fear clawing up her throat. He never answers her, just pushes a manila folder across the table and waits for her to pick it up before he begins to talk.

“That man, Marlo Gavon is one of the filthiest men I have ever known. Not only is he a drug smuggler, having admirably turned his addiction into his business, but he’s branched out into exporting weapons, and selling prostitutes, young girls and boys.”

Liz nods her head to show that she is listening, even as her eyes dance over the page, absorbing as much information as she possibly can. Gavon has been selling children from the ages of seven, forcibly addicting them to heroin, his drug of choice. Disgust rises through her as she stares at his photo; a pig of a man, oily and dirty. She glances back up at Reddington when he stops talking. He is looking at her intently, his face so _soft_ , eyes so kind. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Folding up the documents, she passes them back, waiting for whatever was next.

“Will he do?”

She frowns at him, studies his amused expression. He is uncanny in the way he manages to tilt Liz off-guard, throw her thoughts and assumptions to the wind. Feeling as if everything she has analysed, all the data she has written down, combed over in her notebook so thoroughly, has been completely abolished, she waits for him to elaborate. Liz had predicted him to be controlling, direct, to hold all of the power in his hand, to never show all of his cards. The fact that he is willing, _allowing_ , Liz to decide whether this is the man they target, is unnerving. His eyes are still sparkling as he looks at her.

“Lizzie?”

“Why are you allowing me to decide?” She asks, hands drifting to clasp under the table, rubbing at her wrist softly. It doesn’t go unnoticed by either of them, his eyes tracking her movements and her noticing his attentions. Dembe reaches silently across the table, picks up the folder and tucks them into his jacket. His hot chocolate is empty, Liz not having noticed when he managed to drink it, her attention entirely riveted on Reddington.

“Because it is your fieldtrip, Lizzie,” is his vague response. It is then that she realises that he brought no other candidates, no other options. He expected her to choose this man, a man that he is specifically targeting, most likely for his own cause. Liz stares at him, can see the business man persona, the Concierge of Crime. She nods her head, knows that she has no other option but to accept, if she declined he would call off the Blacklist immediately.

“Excellent!” He proclaims, “Shall we?”

Leading her out to the car, his hand on the small of her back, Liz can feel a wave of fear sweep through. There will be no turning back from this, she is certain. Her career, life, will forever be in jeopardy after this. He notices the way her muscles bunch together, under her clothing and under the steady, warm press of his palm, immediately. Dropping his hand, he is silent on the way to the car, another sleek sedan. Dembe rounds the vehicle slipping into the driver’s side as Reddington opens the door for her, joining her in the backseat after she slides in, the leather of the seats allowing her jean-clad legs to glide across the upholstery.

“Are you carrying your weapon, Lizzie?” He asks, expression one of disapproval. She notes the way he chews on his bottom lip, tongue briefly rolling around his mouth, eyebrows furrowed. Liz feels as if she is being chastened, scolded like a child.

“Well, since you’re dragging me off to God knows where, I thought it necessary. I always feel safer with my gun when off cavorting with criminals,” she snaps in reply. His face remains completely blank, so totally in control of his emotions. Liz thinks now, that she may have pushed him too far, feels the panic slithering up her spine as he continues to stare at her. When his lips quirk at the corners, if only slightly, she feels herself sag in relief.

“Are you off gallivanting with other people of my class often, Lizzie?” He responds, his tone teasing. She can’t help but smile back, even as she tugs her weapon out from her jeans, resting it in her lap. “After all the trouble it took to get that back to you, I’d hate to see you use it in a crime.”

She glances at his fist, thinks of the way, during their first meeting, how his eyes had raked over her features, eyes narrowing as he took in the bruises, the cuts. Dread settles in her gut, thoughts drifting to Slattery, to the ruin of what his face must now be, the wrath and fury that Reddington had released upon him. He is staring at her once more, and though Liz has physical evidence of the violence he is capable of, she feels no fear, only fury. Slattery had been a desperate man, a man trying to get on in his life. She had followed him, tracked his movements for an entire day. He wouldn’t have known if she was a threat to his family, sent by people to hurt him. Unknowingly, unwillingly, Liz had been the one to lead the devil to his door.

“You had _no right_ ,” she snarls, her gaze scathing as it jumps over his face. The twitch, just below his left eye, is the only sign that he is affected by her words, even heard them. Again, the sheer intensity of his stare is settled on her. He is the most serious she has seen him, feels herself shrink against the door, feels the close quarters of the car suffocating her. She is not afraid, not of him, intimidated, yes, and fearful of the actions she may drive him to, the anger she may inspire and the poor unfortunate soul he may unleash it upon. This movement, as minute as she thinks it was, seems to snap him out of his thoughts, his face softening immediately.

“There is nothing I wouldn’t do in this world, Lizzie, to keep you safe.”

“Why?” She replies sharply, though she doesn’t expect an answer and is not surprised when he turns to look out the window, to watch the scenery flash past as Dembe drives them to their next location. When he reaches into his pocket, lays a Glock 22 between them, Liz turns away from him as well, frustrated.

“You’ll need this,” he says softly, “we’ll clean it once you’ve finished using it. It will never be traced back to you.”

She accepts the weapon, toys with it in her hands and grudgingly nods in gratitude, flicking her gaze over to his, meeting only briefly before shifting back to the gun in her hand. They fall into a silence, Reddington drumming his fingers on his thigh. Dembe begins to shift in his seat as he navigates through the traffic, seemingly agitated. It is interesting, as soon as Reddington notices his bodyguard’s behaviour, he stops, folds his hands in his lap. Liz feels her brows draw into a frown.

“I found a photo,” she says quietly, thumb caressing her scar, “Of you and my father.”

He falls very still, his eyes seeming to glaze over. Liz watches him, watches as he turns himself to face her, as if it is physically painful to do so. Again, he is gnawing on his bottom lip, the twitch under his eye flickering once. This is the evidence Liz needed to see, to discover. Reddington hadn’t only known her father, but he had cared deeply for Sam, _loved_ him. They hadn’t been acquaintances, but friends, _brothers_. The grief, so plainly etched into Reddington’s face, rivers of sorrow carving through his skin, is all the proof Liz needs. She thinks it is possible that Reddington may miss her father as much as she does.

Liz has only seen grief, anguish, like this once before. It had been late at night; she and Sam had been curled up on the couch, watching a movie. The wind had been roaring around the house, whistling through the cracks, making the trees outside groan and strain. Winter had settled in Nebraska, cold and dark, the snow storm outside raging for days, stopping Liz from leaving for school. She had been a teenager at the time, rugged up beside her father with a warm cup of tea in hand, alert enough to know that something serious had happened when the phone rang, her dad answering it with a certain level of apprehension; it was too late in the night to be receiving a casual call. His face had fallen, voice cracking slightly as he spoke to the person on the other line, asking details it seemed they were unable to divulge. Silence had fallen over the house, Liz muting the TV until her father came to sit beside her, even the wind outside had seemed to die down. His fingers had been trembling slightly, eyes red rimmed, lips pulled tight as if Sam was suppressing a great emotion. When she asked what had happened, a panic rising in her small body, knotting her stomach, his blue eyes had focussed on her, looking so troubled, so terribly, terribly _sad_. An old friend of his had died, drowned in Marrakesh; his body was yet to be recovered. Sam had stood, told her that they should both go to bed. Liz still remembers watching the glow of the living room light from her room; he never did get any sleep that night. She’d found a bottle of scotch, the same type they would open the night she received her college acceptance letter, empty and lying on its side by the couch in the morning.

When they received a call in the morning, to say that the man had been found alive, dehydrated but _alive_ , washed up on some beach, Sam had taken them out for breakfast, braving the cold and snow. Liz thought that his smile that day would be able to thaw the ice that had settled over the town. He’d chatted and chatted without breath, boyish in his glee. Liz hadn’t thought to ask much about this friend of his, pleased to have her father’s attention so focused on her. Sam had always been a happy man, had always cared and looked after Liz to the best of his abilities, but she had never seen her father so joyful. It made her realise what it was like to have something you so dearly cared for taken away; the gift of having it returned was not something to take for granted. Now that she had lost Sam, she understands it even more so.

“Do you know where it was?” He murmurs, his voice normally so jovial, full of life is now quiet, muted. It brings her attention back to him, away from her dearly missed father. His expression has shifted once more; it amazes her how he manages to become so emotionless.

“No, I don’t. It was taken on a Polaroid though. You both looked very young,” she replies softly, feeling as if _he_ is the one in need of comfort, in need of a hand to drag him through the tide of anguish and sorrow that Sam’s death seems to plague them both with.

“Ah, I taught Sam something about drinking that night,” he laughs, a smile quirking at his lips. It’s a smile that is genuine, _real_ , a smile that reaches his eyes and causes the green to shine bright, so captivating and _joyful_. Liz can do nothing but smile back.

A part of her wants to question him, relentlessly, on how he and Sam met, how long they had known each other, if during their time together, Sam had been involved in criminal activities. They all sit on her tongue, the muscle more like a conveyor belt. She looks at Reddington now, breathes deeply through the ache in her chest, and realises that if she were to ask these questions, expecting answers, she knows she will be disappointed and drag them through a pain that is unnecessary, a pain they’re both struggling through on their own. There will be time later, she thinks, noticing the way Reddington stares back her, his gaze gentle, soft.

“Where are we going?”

Nodding his head firmly, just the once, accepting and perhaps appreciating that she decided to change the topic of discussion. Dembe seems to be slowing the vehicle, and she turns her head to pay more attention to her surroundings, the scenery outside. They’re parked in an empty car park, looking out towards a wharf, bustling with life. She feels anxiety coil and quiver through her muscles. The people walking the jetties, jumping around the boats, darting in and out of shipping containers, directing cranes, _working_ , look to all be civilians. She thinks of Marlo Gavon, the possibility that he may take hostages if he notices their approach, knows that Reddington won’t care if innocents die, that she _willingly_ agreed to do this. Glancing back to the man sitting across from her, she hopes he has a plan, that at least a _shred_ of humanity remains beneath the layers of his expensive suit, not drowned out by scotch or tainted by the lives he has taken. A plan that will mean that only the _criminals_ will be apprehended, hurt or killed, the innocents remaining what they are; innocent.

“We’re going to go have a chat with Mr Gavon,” he states, simply, as if they’re not about to approach a dangerous drug dealer who could potentially kill them. “Then, if he doesn’t agree with our terms, we’ll kill him.”

She swallows. Of course he isn’t concerned; he is Raymond Reddington, the Concierge of Crime, ruthless murderer. He is powerful, unstoppable, a force not to be reckoned with. Picking up the weapon in her lap, she fiddles with it in her hands. She’s in too deep, drowning. When Reddington’s hand reaches across the space between them, interlaces his fingers with hers, she looks at him, startled. His eyes are kind again, piercing. He is so intense with her, his attention unwavering when she speaks, so attuned to her emotions and habits already, it is unsettling.

“Lizzie, you’re safe with me, I promise,” he rumbles, voice so deep, so sensuous. The movement of his thumb, drawing circles on the back of her palm is hypnotising, calming. She feels as if he is anchoring her to the world. Liz studies him as he studies her, eyes flicking over his face as she digests his words. She _believes_ him.

Giving him a wobbly smile, he releases her hand, steps out the car. She waits, as she has learnt to do, for him to get her door, taking his hand as he guides her out. The trembling in her fingers shouldn’t be perceptible to him, but the knowing look he gives her, gives her the impression that she is wrong. Shoving her gun hastily into the back of her jeans, she notices that after Dembe passes Reddington a weapon, he makes a similar gesture. She would have expected him to be strapped with holsters, across his chest, around his ankles, a walking arsenal of weapons to keep him safe, not someone that shoves a loaded gun down the back of his trousers. When he returns his attention to her, she realises that she is smiling at him.

“Shall we get started?” He says briskly, walking past her, in the opposite direction to the wharf, towards a series of warehouses. Dembe is following close behind them, Reddington’s imposing shadow, still so silent. Liz stays where she is, looking after them as they stride off, confident, certain. Reddington turns when he realises she is not behind them. His brows creasing into a frown is enough to make her stumble forwards, her heart thundering in her chest.

“Lizzie, if this is too much, we can go back.”

She fervently shakes her head, images of the young boys and girls that Gavon sells, abuses, flashing through her mind. They must be so alone, terrified, sick and _addicted_. And here is Reddington, standing by her side, the one man with the ability to help them, _save them_ ; a man who has committed atrocities, the most heinous of crimes, is going to be these children’s _saviour_. Liz will do all she can, legal or not, to assure that they are _safe_. With a nod of his head, Reddington walks forwards once more, lagging back slightly to stay by her side.

The warehouses are not rundown, rusting and old, but maintained; their walls shiny and clean, not covered in crude graffiti of mismatched colours. Fences, tall, painted black, and impassable, loom up above them, the spikes adorning them like teeth. The gates rumble on their hinges as Reddington approaches, his stride not faltering. Liz can spot the security cameras staring down at them, attached to the gates, the warehouses. There are no security guards, no life of any kind, the scenery merely concrete and steel, bland colours. The grey pavement, whole, not cracked and seeping green moss, is solid beneath their feet, Liz’s shoes clacking on the ground loudly, announces their presence. Reddington glances at her out the corner of his eye, he does not comment, but Liz makes a mental note to wear quieter shoes in the future.

Dembe is the first at the door, drawing his weapon. Liz doing the same, sliding out her gun and clutching it in her quivering fingers, the tremors causing the barrel of the gun to wobble, if only slightly. Reddington appears completely at ease, posture relaxed and sure, opening a side entrance to the warehouse. As obvious as it should have been to them, they step into a trap, gun fire raining around them as soon as the door rebounds off its hinges. Reddington’s reflexes are astounding, hands empty and then returning fire, pushing Liz behind him, back out into the sunlight as the bullets ricochet within. Dembe follows in after his employer, his bulky frame bent low, shifting to press his back against the wall. Her heartbeat contending with the scream of the bullets, the sound roaring in her ears, she follows after them, weapon raised. The adrenaline almost threatens to override common sense, to shoot blindly into the darkness, into the danger. She can’t see Reddington, can’t see Dembe, only the shaded figures at the opposite end of the building, some already slumped to the ground, puddles of crimson pooling around them.

When Reddington begins to walk forward, straight into the fray, Dembe a step behind him, Liz cannot help but to shout out to him. The gun recoils in his hands as he releases round after round, each sinking into the target. He looks inhuman, bullets raining around him, fedora and sunglasses still so perfectly in place. Confidence is still so easily exuded from him, as if he is not a vulnerable body, merely skin, muscle, tissue and bone, the bullets whistling past him not having the potential to rip through him, spill his blood. The further he walks, the closer to Gavon he gets, Liz feels herself lurch after him, not willing to fire in case she hits him, her hands shaking so badly now that she doesn’t feel as if she can rest her finger on the trigger.

And then silence falls around them, the heavy breathing of those who survived the onslaught the only sound; Her, Dembe, Reddington and Gavon. Liz is by Reddington’s side once more, breaths torn from her chest as she looks at the man across from him, surrounded by his fallen comrades. He is as heavyset as he appeared in the photo Reddington had supplied, his hair thin and greasy, cheeks like apples, round and pink. His eyes are watery, the whites bloodshot and irises hazy. When he smiles at them, Liz can see that his full set of teeth are crooked, yellowing, rotting so severely that his gums are almost as red as the blood by his feet, inflamed.

“Ah, Marlo! How _good_ it is to see you!” Reddington booms, his voice, similar to the bullets, bouncing off the walls of the building, echoing in the empty spaces. As his weapon lowers, Liz raises her own, steadies her aim, acutely aware of the weapon clutched in the drug smugglers sweaty fingers. Dembe does the same, seemingly happy to allow Reddington to do the talking, as always. Liz stares at him, his solemn face, features unmoving, eyes scanning the surroundings. The way he followed Reddington into the building, into the conflict, without thought, without hesitation, gives the impression that it is not only the depth of Reddington’s pockets that keeps Dembe by his side. There is something deeper, a connection that has built and inspired such unwavering loyalty between them. It’s obvious in their body language, the words they do not speak, but communicate through movement, through something as simple as a _glance_ at each other.

“What do you want, Reddington?” Gavon all but snarls, spit spraying into the air before him. Shifting on his feet, his eyes jump to Liz and then away, focussing back onto the Concierge of Crime. The weapon in his hand is empty; he lets it drop to the floor with a clatter. Dembe is picking it up off the ground seconds later.

“You disgust me, Marlo, to discover the horrors of addiction, to work your way up and turn it into a business, though truly remarkable, is greatly lessened by your other activities. Forcibly addicting children, a horror even I have not committed. You treat them worse than livestock, selling them off to the worst of humanity. So, for those reasons, and some others, I am here to find out where you’re keeping them,” Reddington explains, turning to Liz, arm outstretched as he continues, “My friend is here to help them, get them to a hosp-”

He stops midsentence, staring at Liz, before turning back to Gavon apologising for the moment, and walking towards her. A smile, gentle and soft, is spread across his faces as he approaches. Liz does not drop her weapon, stance unchanging, the barrel of her gun riveted between Gavon’s eyes. Reddington’s hand is warm as he places it on her back, the other on her elbow, dry and soft. He straightens her posture, putting pressure between her shoulder blades, levels her aim, lifting her arm higher. He whispers, lips almost brushing the shell of her ear,

“Back straighter, Lizzie, and arms higher, it’ll steady your aim,” and then his attention is back on Gavon, who is watching them with eyebrows raised, offended at Reddington’s blatant disregard of their discussion. “Sorry, Marlo, she’s new at this.”

Liz is too shocked to be affronted, insulted, instead finding the whole occurrence rather comical. Marlo’s brows are creased in offence, as if the wavering attention of a ruthless killer is something to be slighted by. Reddington is acting as if the interruption never occurred, as if the heat of his hands hadn’t seared into her skin, his breath didn’t still whisper over her skin. She shifts her position, makes sure that her hands are steady, held higher. Her gaze shifts around the room, over the lifeless body at their feet. Looking at them now, at the men that had shot and almost killed the three of them, she feels no remorse. Even as she has the thought a knot forms in her stomach, concern about what this darker world may turn her into.

The warehouse is full of shipping containers, in all likelihood, containing illegal drugs, weapons and horrifyingly, children. Liz is unable to hear any sounds, knowing that they’re most likely in a drug-induced silence, to stop them from screaming, from struggling, sapping them of the energy to even claw for breath. She swallows back the bile that rises in her throat, settling for letting the venom and disgust she feels towards Gavon to leak into her glare. He doesn’t seem disturbed or unsettled in the slightest, and Liz imagines what she must look like compared to the man she accompanied; merely a young girl, naive in the world these men thrive in, playing with monsters and dark knights.

“Where are they, Marlo?” Reddington growls, his entire demeanour turns menacing. His eyes darkening considerably, his face dropping into a snarl, teeth almost bared. Liz watches with fascination, not noticing the way his finger shifts on the trigger, instead focusing on the slow heaves of his chest, still completely calm, composed.

“In the containers,” Gavon replies, voice shaking as he reaches into his pocket retrieving an assortment of keys and tossing them onto the ground by Reddington’s feet, rattling through the air and landing solidly. The Concierge of Crime picks them up off the floor, not even having to turn to toss them to Liz, who snatches them out of the air and hurries quickly to the closest container, fumbling at the lock.

The shot rings out loudly, making Liz drop the keys all together and shout, spinning around. Reddington is standing over Gavon’s body, the bullet having ripped through brain, skull and embedded in the concrete beneath. Blood laps at his Italian shoes, outlines the expensive leather. He looms over the body like death, impassively looking down at Gavon’s glazed eyes, staring up at the ceiling, at nothing.

“What the _Hell_ are you doing?” She screams at him, “You could have alerted the authorities, left him here to be arrested! He was unarmed!”

He merely raises a brow at her, tucks his gun into his trousers, nonchalantly walking over to the shipping container. Liz is trembling with fury, following after him, sickened by his casual nature; completely unaffected that he’d killed an unarmed, defenceless man. They keys jangle together as he picks them up off the floor, leisurely going through each key until it fits that particular lock, completely ignoring her, as if she is overreacting. When the lock clicks, he wrenches the door open, the smell wafting around them enough to make her gag.

Bodies litter the harsh, unforgiving base of the container; their tiny legs and arms trembling, struggling to raise their heads, gasping for fresh air. Their skin is filthy, hair tangled, clothing, what was left of it, soiled and torn. They sit in all kinds of bodily fluid, having nowhere else to escape the mess. Ribs threaten to break through their parchment like skin, so fragile, so thin. Lips, chapped and split, are parted, begging for water to salve their parched throats, the thirst more maddening than the hunger. Red marks track up their arms, some inflamed and infected, needing treatment immediately.

Liz raises a hand to her mouth, feeling tears of shock well in her eyes. She turns to Reddington, his expression grave, lips pulled back into a thin line. His eyes quickly flicker around the room and she follows his gaze, noticing that Dembe is nowhere to be seen. And then the jade eyes are locked on to hers, and he sounds disappointed in her as he says,

“You’re right Lizzie, we should have let him live.”

Except it seems as if his tone is tinged with hope, that perhaps she will understand his actions; justice couldn’t have been found in a jail cell for a man like Marlo Gavon.

She nods her head at him. She does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a slow update, these past few weeks have been pretty rough, making this chapter damn hard to write. I hope you all still enjoyed it and it was up to an acceptable standard, please let me know what you thought, I’d love to hear from you all. Next chapter should hopefully be up soon, should all go well.


	9. We Caught Your Eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And the waves that hit his face,  
> Marked the past,  
> And the farrows on his skin,  
> Oh, how time goes fast.” – From Finner, Of Monsters & Men

Half an hour after opening the shipping containers, helping and dragging the children and bodies out of their prisons, comforting them as they wept, filthy fingers smearing over their clothes, over Reddington’s suit as he cradles them, the team the Concierge of Crime had called for arrives. Dembe has reappeared once more, expression tight as he gently guides the children away from the containers, offers them water, checks them for injuries. Liz watches him for afar, notices Reddington doing similar, his own expression one of concern, the quiet man’s past seemingly more clearer to her the more she looks. The sharp rap at the door has Dembe standing from where he is crouched with a young boy, wiping grime from his face, and makes his way over, admitting entrance to a slip of a woman and several burly men behind her, varying equipment in hand. Their tasks lay motionless in pools of crimson, faces and hands turning blue, fingernails and lips pale in death.

Liz had wanted Reddington to call for ambulances immediately, to get the children out of this warehouse as quickly as possible. He had rebuffed her insistence, the bodies that littered the cold, grey floor, blood blooming under them like flowers, having the potential to lead back to them. They would need to be disposed of, and he, Dembe and Liz, long gone before the authorities were alerted to the children. In the end she grudgingly agrees with him, busies herself soothing the older girls and boys, while Reddington, with an expression so tender Liz cannot help but stare, whispers to the younger children, cleans them up, makes them smile, even as tears of fear, of relief, well in their wide eyes, their emotions so wild, so turbulent. His hands are steady as he tilts the glass of water to the lips of a young girl, no older than eight, cradling the back of her head gently as she sips, eyes closed. He had been the first to search for a kitchen, for glasses and fresh water as Liz cracked open all the locks, revealing not only the children, but drugs and weapons as well. Reddington had scoffed when he saw those shipments, emerging from a separate room, dusting a glass with his jacket. What Liz had thought abundant, is apparently nothing compared to his own deliveries.

The woman steps into the warehouse, eyeing the bodies, the children, _everything_ , with a certain level of indifference. She is an older woman, older than Reddington by a few years. Her hair is thin, brown, threaded with silvering strands and her face is angular, features sharp. Pearls adorn her ears, lips are painted with red. Standing next to Dembe, she is tiny, her slight body wrapped in a thick coat to ward off the chill of the afternoon. Head held high, after gently patting Dembe on the arm, she strides over to Reddington without a moment’s hesitation. Her footsteps echo around the room, her heels clicking against the concrete. Liz watches with interest as Reddington stands, embraces the woman warmly, kisses her on the cheek. They speak in hushed tones, Liz lifting her chin as the woman glances over to her briefly. That is when Reddington notices Liz’s attentions. He guides the woman over to her, a gentle hand between her shoulder blades.

“Lizzie, this is Mr Kaplan,” he explains, smiling at her before looking down at the older lady quite fondly, “Kate’s the one that’s been keeping me out of trouble all these years.”

“Oh dearie, if only that were true,” remarks Mr Kaplan, her tone bland, almost emotionless. Reddington simply grins at her, a quiet laugh escaping him. Liz smiles, offers her hand to the bizarre woman, still feeling slightly suspicious. She takes it without indecision, her handshake firm and expression blank, no friendly smile, just piercing eyes staring at her through gold-rimmed glasses. Reddington seeming to sense Liz’s discomfort leads the other woman off towards the bodies, where her team are already digging through paling flesh, searching for and extracting bullets.

The children have all congregated into one group, those who are older caring after the younger, more frightened boys and girls. All they had in those containers was each other, a will to survive and fight; feeding off all the hope they could muster from one another. Their tattered clothes hang from their bodies causing them to shiver in the chill that is creeping through the walls, into the air all around them. Liz glances over to the team responsible for disposing of the bodies, watching as they work in urgency, still so meticulous and certain, but Mr Kaplan’s stern voice barks orders, hurries them along. Reddington has made his way back to stand by her side, close enough that his shoulder brushes her own; she can feel his warmth seeping through his clothing. His eyes are grave, gazing over the scene as he clutches a mobile in hand. He is waiting, Liz realises, waiting for the exact moment it is safe for them to leave and he can call the authorities, alert them to the heinous acts performed against these innocent children. She nudges him with her shoulder, not entirely sure why she did so as he turns to look down at her, something in his eyes sparking at the way she offers him a small smile.

“You did very well today, Lizzie,” he says softly, offering her a smile of his own, he indicates at first towards the bodies and then the children, “in every aspect.”

She continues to look at him, thinks of how he so willingly walked into the fray, into danger. Liz isn’t entirely sure if it is because he knew that these children were in this warehouse, dying from lack of oxygen, or if he was just on a suicidal mission, seeking an adrenaline rush, the life of a criminal perhaps dulling the usual receptors to danger, to _fear_. Liz wonders that if over the many years he has been on the run, dodging the authorities and evading his enemies, Reddington now has to go to such extreme lengths to get a rush, to manage to _feel_ something. The worry, the concern, that worms its way through Liz is unexpected, the fear that this _man_ , this _enigma_ , may be too careless one day and will ultimately pay for it with his life.

He is frowning at her now, his lips quirking up in amusement, as she stares. His suit is ruined, covered in God knows what, streaky fingertips running down the grey material. Fedora and sunglasses are in a neat pile by the door, having been discarded after emptying the containers. Shirtsleeves are rolled up, revealing his tanned forearms, the skin surprisingly unblemished. His fingernails are immaculate, cuticles neat and tidy, the nails shiny and polished. It leads her to believe that Reddington is rarely involved in these situations, perhaps preferring to pull the trigger and leave the rest to employees like Mr Kaplan.

“Do you think this arrangement will work between us, Lizzie, the Blacklist?” He asks and his voice is still so quiet. Even as his expression falls blank, indifferent, it seems to Liz as if he is slightly hopeful, eyes scanning the warehouse, gazing over the weakened children. The mobile phone is still clutched tightly in his palm. He is chewing on the inside of his lip as he waits for her to answer. She follows his gaze, feels pride rise within her as she looks at the freedom she has granted to these children, the lives they can now lead, the help they will able to receive, to chase away their demons. Turning back to him, she sighs.

“If you have another Blacklister, I’d like to think that you’d contact me,” she responds glibly, smirking slightly as he grins at her, seeming to her like a young boy, wearing a smile like the ones that _should_ be gracing the features of the children they dragged from Hell. She swallows back her sorrow, blinks away the tears. It’s is just _horrifying_ , what they must have been subjected to. If the Blacklist gives her the chance to take down criminals such as Marlo Gavon, she would seize the opportunity, no matter the means or dubious legalities.

Mr Kaplan signals to Reddington that they are able to leave, the last of the bodies being carried out of the building in body bags by her men. Liz does not want to contemplate where they will go from there, and finds that she does not particularly care. Mr Kaplan comes over and kisses Reddington on the cheek, gloved hands red with blood. With a word of thanks, and a nod to the rest of her team, they stride out of the warehouse, Liz glancing back over her shoulder to the children, all huddled together. Reddington is on the phone immediately, an anonymous tip to the FBI, merely rattling off the address and circumstances before ending the call and crushing the phone into the cement, the glass of the screen shattering under the heel of his polished and spotless shoes.

The sedan is where they left it, still sleek and shiny, the polished metal shimmering in the afternoon sun. As the three of them make their way over to the vehicle, it becomes apparent that Reddington is walking particularly close to Dembe, his shoulder occasionally brushing the younger man’s bicep. Liz is frowning once more, something that she seems to constantly do around this particular man, in both confusion and frustration. She craves to know their connection, can hazard a few educated guesses, but wants them to be confirmed, almost wishes for Reddington to confide in her. Finally reaching the car, Reddington returns his attention to her, offering her a smile as he opens the car door, which she returns, escaping the cool wind as the sides of the vehicle enclose around her. When Reddington closes the door and she looks up at him, his focus is entirely riveted on her.

“So, are we driving to your apartment, or to Tom’s?”

Liz is startled by his words, the abrupt way they lurch from his mouth, out into the quiet cabin of the car, disdain staining them. She isn’t entirely sure as to why she suddenly feels so defensive, as if she has been caught out doing something deplorable. Squaring her shoulders, keeping her gaze steady with his, she tilts her head in inquiry, pressing her lips together. Reddington simply grins, not seeming to care that she has not responded. He continues with his line of questioning, ruthlessly, unforgiving.

“What happened to Nick?”

It is as if he has slapped her, the image of her ex-partner rising and shimmering before her like a ghost, the after affects of a blow to the head. She feels her nails dig into the leather of the seat, bites down on her tongue to stop the acidic reply she wants to spit at him. With this man, she realises that composure is key. If one is able to match him, to remain as calm and emotionless as Raymond Reddington, they may be given the _pleasure_ of a straight answer, a shred of respect. So Liz schools her features, breathes out deeply through her nose. It is when he smirks at her, as if he _knows_ the thoughts that are streaming through her mind, that she is trying to _best him_ , that causes her to snap,

“How do you know about Nick?”

He shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, and Liz can imagine that if they were not in a car, he would take a drag of his cigar, or a sip of his scotch, buying time. Dembe is navigating through the streets, Liz having no inclination of where he may be taking them. She doesn’t care all that much, merely glares across the seat at Reddington, waiting anxiously for his reply. It is unnerving, terrifying, the way he simply unhinges her, spitting out intimate details about her life so casually.

“As I’ve said before, Sam never contacted me much, but when he did, he almost always spoke non-stop about you. He mentioned Nick, said that you were engaged,” Reddington explains, tilting his head to the side, assessing her. It would make sense that Sam would speak of Nick, of her relationship with him, he’d most likely gush, Nick having turned on his charm whenever he was to meet Liz’s father, turning into the most doting of boyfriends, sweet and friendly and funny. Nick the successful student, the doctor, the _surgeon_. She sighs, remembering when they would leave Nebraska, the sharp scathing remarks he would make afterwards during the drive home.

“So, when you said that you were leaving _Tom’s_ apartment this morning, I couldn’t help but come to the conclusion that you must have ended it with Nick. What happened, Lizzie?”

“It’s none of your business,” Liz snarls in reply, uncomfortable with his line of questioning. A slither of embarrassment seeping into her veins, self consciousness. She does not want him to know about Tom, wants to keep the other man hidden, keep the innocent kind teacher from the bloodthirsty criminal across from her. His eyes are still so _sharp_ , steady on her face. He nods his head once, turns to look out the window.

“Dembe, would you please take us to Elizabeth’s apartment.”

They ride in silence, Liz stewing over Reddington’s words. The scenery flashes by, the buildings, the pedestrians, other cars, the trees they past merely a blur. Unlike their first meeting, Liz silently urges Dembe to drive faster, to lessen the amount of time she is trapped with the Concierge of Crime, the suffocating tension in the cabin becoming too much. He doesn’t say another word, just sits with his hands folded in his lap, thumb running up and down his forefinger. Liz wonders if she overreacted, if he had merely been curious, creating conversation. His tone, however, had been the reason her hackles had raised, her defensive nature ingrained into her being. It had been laced with derision, the way he seemed to spit Tom’s name, so full of contempt. She found herself frowning, _again_. There was no reason for him to react in such a way.

Dembe parks at the curb, Liz bidding them both goodbyes, opening her door before Reddington gets the chance to. He replies in kind, lips turned down as she shuts the door, turning her back on them and making her way to her apartment without looking behind. She hears the car pull away from the sidewalk and disappear off into the street. Her keys cut into her skin, gripping them so hard in her palm, smothering the disappointment that he hadn’t called her back, hadn’t mentioned another Blacklister.

The sky is turning to twilight, the lights of the city twinkling to life around her. Trees creak in the breeze, carry the sound of traffic through the street. It isn’t _too_ cold that Liz wouldn’t be able to go for a run, sweat out the stress and strain of the day. She jogs up the stairs, disregarding the elevator entirely; heading straight for her room after the lock gives way to her key. It takes her only minutes to get changed, lace up her shoes and jam her headphones into her phone, choosing from her newest playlist, before she is back out on the street. Her feet pounding along the pavement, setting a steady rhythm, to match the rising beat of her heart. Beads of sweat build and roll down her shoulder blades, down the small of her back, soak into her clothing. Her breaths are harsh, puffing, as her legs propel her towards the park, into the cover of darkness, only a few other joggers her company.

As the minutes tick by, as her heart rate rises, the only thing Liz can focus on is placing one foot in front of the other. All thoughts of Reddington, of Tom, of _everything_ , are drowned out by the rampant beat of her heart. The world is blocked out; all outside sound muted by the music blasting through her earphones, her vision entirely focused on her path, making her way back to her apartment. She has only on fleeting thought as she wipes at the moisture smeared across her forehead; her shower is going to be _divine_. It is why she does not notice the van, plain and white, across the street, does not notice the two men loitering around her building.

It is when one of them approaches her, FBI badge brandished before him, saying something she cannot hear over her music, that she notices them. He is only slightly older than Liz, muscular in his suit, not as well fitted as Reddington’s, nor as expensive, but accentuating his figure all the same. His ginger hair is styled, sculpted with minimal gel. Freckles are sprinkled across his pale complexion, blue eyes serious and narrowed as he regards her. Presumably his partner stands behind him, brandishing his own badge. His greying hair and sagging gut make it obvious he is well past his prime, more of a paperwork cop now than a man out in the field, unlike Reddington, who is still fit, almost youthful in his grace and agility. Heart rate thumping wildly, in no way related to her prior exertions, she flicks out her earbuds, much to the annoyance of the younger agent, who repeats what she has missed.

“Elizabeth Scott, I am Donald Ressler and this is my partner, Bobby Janico,” his voice is gravelly, blunt. “We’re here to discuss an anonymous call regarding you.”

Liz just nods her head, using the excuse of sweaty palms to not shake their hands, hiding the trembling in her fingers by tangling them through her hair, brushing wispy strands out of her face. She smiles at bit breathless, hopes that she looks as if she will cooperate, not at all suspicious as to why the FBI are standing on her doorstep. Briefly, she considers inviting them inside, wonders if they expect her to, until she remembers the incriminating documents spread over her walls, the fake passports, all the possible information she could gather on Reddington, her explicit notes on the Concierge of Crime. Instead she settles on remaining outside, hoping the brisk wind will drive them away faster.

“How can I help you?”

“We’ve received a tip that you may have been in contact with Raymond Reddington,” he says, shoving his badge into a pocket. Liz feels her heart seize in her chest, can feel both sets of eyes resting on her, gauging her reaction. Feigning confusion would be as good as confessing. They would have run a background check, discovered that she is a fledgling agent herself, is currently studying at Quantico. They would assume that she knew which criminals graced the FBI’s Most Wanted. She settles for denial, tinged with outrage.

“That is ridiculous,” she laughs out, purposely knitting her brows together in confusion. Ressler glances back to his partner, quiet. He is not stoic and solemn like Dembe, not projecting such strength and protection, just a tired old man that has been chasing the same criminal for too long. Liz rubs at the back of her neck, the skin cooling in the breeze. Agent Ressler still has a burning fire in his stomach, the obvious fuel of hatred propelling him forward, the promise of reward, to hunt down the ever elusive Raymond Reddington. Liz hides her smirk, thinking that all they need is some fake passports, the right contacts and they could so _easily_ have him.

“Are you denying these claims?” Ressler asks studiously, shifting his stance. He looks as if in his younger years, throughout college and school, he would have been a jock. A jock with good morals and principles, kind to everyone and liked by all, but a jock nonetheless. His shoulders are broad, arms muscled, jaw line chiselled. There is no denying that the man is attractive.

“Of course I am!” Liz insists, pulling her head back to glare at them, “Why the hell would I be in contact with a monster like Reddington? How do you know, if this was an anonymous tip, that someone isn’t trying to set me up?”

“Would anyone have any reason to target you?”

Still frowning, she slowly shakes her head, chews on the inside of her lip. Ressler looks as if he doesn’t believe her, suspicion bleeding into his icy blue irises. He glances back to his partner, Janico, who simply nods his head, staring at Liz intently. Turning back, Ressler shifts and plants his hands on his hips, pulling back his suit jacket to reveal his holstered weapon. An obvious display of power, designed to frighten her into submission, compliance. It’s laughable compared to the sheer magnitude of power that Reddington radiates. She refuses to be intimidated by this man.

“If we are to discover that you have _any_ contact or link to Reddington, I can promise that we will bring you in and lock you away for a _long time_.”

The threat is unmistakable. She will be put under surveillance; records scoured through, life upturned, suspended from her education at Quantico and all cases she is involved in. The van that is currently parked at the curb would remain there; sweaty and grumpy agents cramped in the tiny cabin, the smell of stale takeout tainting their clothing, as they watch and record her every movement. She smothers down the panic, the buzzing distress that she hopes has not drained her features, paled her skin. The mere thought of it makes her feel as if her skin is crawling off her bones. They don’t have enough incriminating evidence to take her in, not yet. They are simply following a lead, an anonymous call enough to spark suspicion and distrust, guiding them straight to her door. She runs her tongue along the back of her teeth, stamps down the terror scratching and scrabbling up her throat, tearing through her veins.

When she does not respond, Ressler barks at her,

“Is that _clear_?”

Shakily nodding her head, the two agents, Ressler looking smug at her meek expression, bid her a farewell, not concerned that she would flee the country, her name most likely plastered over every Government watchlist already. There would be no escape. So they leave her to stand in the dark, battling the urge to vomit as they stride down the street. She can’t feel the bitter wind lashing at her clothing, instead focussing her energy into swallowing down the lump of horror lodged in her throat, to blink away the frightened tears that prick at her eyes. Her quivering legs carry her inside, towards the elevator where she jams the button to get to her floor and sags against the unforgiving steel wall as the machine ascends, clanking and rattling.

Her apartment is dark and cold, the only heat coming from the mobile phone that seems to be smouldering into her arm, strapped where it is, earphones still dangling from where they are plugged in. She flicks on the heater, turns on the lights and television, trying to salvage some form of normalcy as her world crumbles and falls around her. Food will be cooked tonight, a microwave meal heated, but not eaten, left to cool on the couch as Liz fights the urge to contact Reddington, to sought comfort from the man that dragged her into this mess. Planting herself on the couch, her clothing smelling of stale sweat, she removes the mobile device from her arm, toys with it in her hands, contemplating her next moves. The thought of calling off the Blacklist is quickly dismissed; the images of those poor abused children flashing violently through her mind, their tiny bruised bodies, cradled and cared for under Reddington’s large hands. If her career at the FBI ends, if she is dismissed from Quantico, knowing that she saved those children would be enough to carry her through the rest of her days, without regret. Liz truly believes that the work she and Reddington can and _will_ achieve is more than anything she could _dream_ of working under the jurisdiction of the FBI.

He will keep her safe; that much he has vowed and promised. She so willingly believes him. If the time comes and Liz needs to flee the country, she has not a doubt that Reddington has the resources and means to ferry her out of the country unmolested to begin a new life somewhere else. Having evaded the FBI for almost two decades, to have evaded the _other_ secret services and Governments hunting and tracking him, is a feat to be marvelled at. The man is a survivor, Liz is certain of that much. He has made a thriving empire of passing people, weapons and drugs through borders undetected, without hesitation. The more money he earns, the easier it becomes, the more people he can bribe and pay off. Money gives him the power to manipulate, to make promises to those who don’t have a hope of achieving their dreams with their measly savings. Reddington doesn’t buy loyalty, he is too smart to trust the people he pays off, but it does have its benefits. His ruthlessness terrifies people into obeying; violating Reddington’s trust is equivalent to signing your own death warrant.

Yanking her headphones out from her phone, tossing them onto the coffee table, Liz scrolls through her contact list. She looks for his name, even though she knows she does not have his number, has no means to contact him at all. Feeling adrift, eyes glazing over as she stares at the screen, it takes her a moment to realise that an incoming call is causing her phone to vibrate in her palm. Her heart leaps, thinking that perhaps it’s Reddington, thinking that he may be calling to apologise for their conversation in the car, that he may have a new Blacklister. Liz doesn’t _care_ what it is; she just needs to tell him about Agent Ressler. When she reads the name, not an unknown number on the screen, her stomach curls in disappointment, before she slides her thumb across the screen.

“Hey, Tom, how are you?”

He doesn’t sound disgruntled, displeased that she had disappeared into the morning without as much as a goodbye. His cheerful voice lets Liz know that he just figured that she had business to get to and that he hoped she could tell him all about her day over dinner, perhaps somewhere nicer tonight, instead of cheap takeout. Liz picks at her nails as he speaks, runs her thumb over her scar. She can’t go out tonight, not while the panic from earlier is so deeply rooted into her body, anchored to her skeleton, woven through her muscles and tendons. Her agitation, jumpiness, would not go unnoticed and would be incredibly difficult to explain. When she says that she is feeling a bit unwell, thinks that she may just have an early night, the concern laced through his voice causes her heart to twist painfully. He is so sweet, so caring. With a promise to contact him later in the week, she hangs up the phone, tossing it onto the coffee table with a clatter, a sigh escaping her as she does so.

Heaving herself up from the couch she makes her way to the bathroom, runs a shower as hot as she can stand it, so hot that when she finally emerges from the alcove in a cloud of steam, the veins in her legs have risen to the surface of the skin, angry red and purple spider webs . Towelling herself off, her hair still damp, she makes her way to her bedroom, the bed unmade. Finding the strength to drag a soft shirt over her head to sleep in, Liz collapses onto her mattress, hoping that sleep will chase away her relentless thoughts. It does, but the dreams that come with it cause her to toss and turn throughout the night, to wake in the morning tangled in her sheets and covered in sweat.  
She sits up, groggy, in bed, wiping at her eyes as the last tendrils of her dream, of sleep escape from her. It is early in the day, the morning commute only just beginning, not yet the raucous calamity of screeching tyres and horns and impatient drivers. The city is still relatively quiet, unlike Liz’s stomach that loudly voices its displeasure at having skipped dinner the night before. Dragging herself out of her sheets, she pauses only to pull on a pair of fluffy blue socks, forgoing pants altogether.

When Liz stumbles out into her living room, braless, pant-less, hair a tangled mess and eyes still puffy from sleep, she does not expect to see Raymond Reddington sitting cross-legged at her dining table. His fedora is placed by his hand, as are his sunglasses. He is dressed, unsurprisingly, in a faultless suit, a dark maroon colour for today, fitted perfectly as always. Sitting before him are two white paper bags, the smell wafting from them is heavenly. She gasps, causing him to raise his eyes, a bright smile already on his face. His gaze is positively _lustful_ as it grazes up her bare legs, settling a moment too long on her black cotton underwear, before finally reaching her wide eyes. That is where they remain, his left eye twitching only once, to display his moment of weakness. His face falls into something impassive, as if having broken into her apartment while she was sleeping, is nothing out of the ordinary.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Liz asks stridently, voice a little hysterical as she crosses her arms over her chest. He glances back down at the table, and that is when Liz notices the black notebook before him, _her notebook_. Like the Cheshire cat, his grin is wide, bright, _brilliant_ , as he picks up the book and waves it towards her.

“Reading,” is his response, tone tinged with amusement as he returns to pursuing the pages, “And it is most definitely an interesting read. Definitely allows an insight into how your mind works, how you _profile_.”

Liz decides to ignore him and the heat creeping over her body in embarrassment as he reads _everything_ she has written on him; the habits she has noticed, the words and promises he has said and made to her, the places he has taken her, the way he manipulates those around him, his desires and motives. She nibbles on the inside of her lip as he flicks through the pages, seeming unconcerned about her growing humiliation. Stubbornly, she stands and watches him, unmoving, not caring that she is only half dressed, hoping to make him uncomfortable enough to leave, though that tactic seems extremely unlikely.

With a snap of the notebook’s pages, he stands, scooping up the white bags and making his way towards the kitchen, fossicking through it as if he lives there. Liz’s gaze follows him as he procures two plates, tipping the contents of the packages he brought onto them; crisp and flaky, golden pastries. Smiling at them like a proud father, Reddington then begins to put on a jug of coffee, helping himself to the measly contents of Liz’s kitchen. He doesn’t seem to mind, and before Liz knows it, she is being ushered to the table, a plate of delectable breakfast in hand and a mug of coffee placed before her.

“Do you want to get dressed before we start?” Reddington asks, eyes glinting at her as if in challenge. Liz feels as if she should be offended, even though his eyes do not stray from her face, they remain studiously locked to her own. He is playing a game, seeing how far he can push her, test her boundaries, how willing she is to match him. So she shrugs her shoulders, smirks at him, and picks up her first pastry, ignoring the wicked grin that dances over his features before he digs in.

The food melts in her mouth, an explosion of flavour, from creamy vanilla to the tang of cherries; they are undoubtedly the most delicious pastries Liz has ever had. They sit in silence as they devour their meals, only giving moans of appreciation as the golden cases give way under their teeth, the fillings bursting with intense flavour. Even as she enjoys her meal, her eyes are drawn to Reddington, how he delicately eats, nimbly licking at his fingers after each bite, seemingly oblivious to her staring. Until his eyes jump to meet hers, catching her out. She blurts the first thing that comes to mind, around a mouthful of blueberry filling.

“Where’s Dembe?”

“Outside, he is waiting in the car.”

Tongue digging around in the back of her mouth to dislodge some pastry, Liz can’t help but frown at him. He has always been a polite man; to her at least. She can’t imagine him leaving Dembe to wait for him out in the car, especially not after seeing the bond and connection they so obviously share. It is rude, to say the least. He seems to sense her ire, waits for her to reply, pastry half way raised to his mouth.

“Wouldn’t he like some breakfast, some pastries?”

His face seems to darken then, and unconsciously, he drags his plate closer towards him, as if he is protecting it. Glancing down at his meal, his voice is serious when he replies, after taking a sip of his coffee.

“Dembe has no patience.”

She smothers her grin by shoving another bite into her mouth, wondering how many of these pastries Reddington has lost to his bodyguard, how many times he had come back to his latest safehouse looking forward to a treat to find the younger man with incriminating flakes down his shirt front and no pastries in sight. Reddington notices her stifled amusement and glowers at her for a moment, before huffing out a laugh of his own, continuing to finish his breakfast.

Once the last golden flake has been dabbed off the white porcelain plates with a moist fingertip, the only remains of their coffee, a ring settled around the base of their mugs, Reddington gathers the dishes and places them in a pile, before folding his hands before him and turning to Liz, his expression serious, business-like.

“Why are you here?” She asks, matching his steady gaze with her own. The thought flitters across her mind of how he got into the building undetected; successfully evading the surveillance team for the FBI that is so surely camped down on the opposite side of the street. She shivers, crossing her bare thighs to ward off the chill creeping into the room. He notices, of course he does, and before she has a moment to protest he is in her bedroom, searching through her cupboards, tossing her an old jumper and a pair of yoga pants. Trying to retain some dignity, she pulls the articles of clothing on quickly and then hurriedly trails after Reddington as he returns to the table.

“You’re being followed.”

She scoffs, raises her brows at him.

“You think? I had two agents at my door last night asking if I had any connection to _you_. Which most likely has obliterated my career at the FBI and any hope I had of becoming a successful profiler,” She snarls at him, picking up the dishes he had stacked and taking them to the sink to begin washing up, a distraction so her fingers don’t stray to her scar, give away to his ever attentive gaze that she is anxious.

He laughs at her, a loud noise in her small apartment, his smile seeming false now. She grits her teeth as she slams the hot water faucet on, squeezing an unnecessary amount of detergent into the sink. It bubbles and froths as she begins to pile the dishes in, scrubbing needlessly at the plates, having not become that dirty after their neat meals. When she looks back over to him, his head is tilted at an angle, an eyebrow quirked at her. Water has splashed onto the jumper he had found for her, making the deep blue appear black.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Donald,” Reddington comments flippantly, waving a hand in the air, “he is all bark, no bite. No, it’s the anonymous caller that causes us concern.”

She stares at him, baffled by his blasé nature. The thought that there may be someone trailing her, watching her movements, _before_ the FBI and she had not noticed, is frightening. He clears his throat as she wipes her hands on a tea towel, leaning against the breakfast bench. Swallowing past her fear and hoping her voice isn’t croaky, she asks,

“So, do you have any idea who it is? Am I in danger?”

He shakes his head, something in his expression changing, leading her to the conclusion that whilst he is around, any danger that may threaten her would have to pass through him first. The protection she feels from this man, what she can so clearly profile and label is baffling. Reddington is, in all seriousness, a stranger to her. A criminal who has wandered into her life, brings her breakfast and dresses her when she is cold, knows intimate things about her father and therefore herself, but a stranger nonetheless.

“They’ll make themselves known eventually, Lizzie,” he states, “They are after me, not you. We will deal with them accordingly when the time comes. For now, I have a proposition for you.”

Before he can say another word she cuts him off, thinking of the frantic state of her mind the night before, the desperate way at which she wished she could make contact with him, have him soothe her fraying nerves with his deep baritones, the only person in the world she could talk to about this particular arrangement.

“I need a way of contacting you.”

Without hesitation he reaches into his pocket and produces a mobile phone, presumably a burner. He places it on the table, explains that there is a number programmed into it, his current number. It changes on a regular basis, Reddington promising that when it does he will text the new one to her immediately. She thanks him quietly, striding over and grabbing the phone, tucking it into the pocket of her jumper, keeping it close.

“I was wondering, Lizzie, if you would accompany me to a gala, tomorrow night,” he invites, “Our next Blacklister will be present, a guest.”

She takes a moment to decide, a single tendril of hesitation tangling through her before she dismisses it and nods her head. It elicits a grin from him, pleased and excited.

“Excellent! Dembe will be here to pick you up at nine in the morning,” He proclaims, scooping his fedora and sunglasses off the table and bidding her farewell, disappearing through the door as silent as he came. Liz lets out a breath, feeling as if a cyclone just tore through her living room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out to be a monster of a chapter and I can’t say the next one is going to be any shorter. Honestly... It’ll be the biggest chapter yet, like I can’t even comprehend it. It’s going to be light-hearted, fun and full of Liz and Red and Dembe, without even a glimpse of Tom, not a fucking smidge. It is in protest of Episode 11 and it is going to be glorious. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and look forward to the next! Please, oh please let me know what you think!


	10. The Way You Held Me So Tight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And these fingertips,  
> Will never run through your skin,  
> And those bright blue eyes,  
> Can only meet mine across the room filled with people,  
> That are less important than you.” – Love Love Love, Of Monsters & Men

Dembe is punctual; the knock on the front door of her apartment in time with the flashing clock on her microwave, ticking over to display that it is exactly nine o’clock in the morning. Liz opens the door without preamble, invites the man inside who offers her a small, and rare, smile. His presence seems to fill up her humble apartment. Unlike Reddington, who seemed to meld into the furniture, help himself to food and coffee and _anything_ within his reach, outlast his welcome, seemingly so at _home_ , Dembe looms. He is so tall, so broad, and even a little bit awkward as he stares at Liz, possibly wondering why they have not made their way down to the car yet.

“I don’t mean to be rude, Dembe,” she begins, fiddling with her hands as he continues to stare at her, “but why did you have to come so early? Reddington said the gala was tonight.”

“Mr Reddington has organised some appointments for you throughout the day,” he responds, his voice deep and almost melancholy. She quirks an eyebrow at him, shifts her stance, uncomfortable with whatever Reddington has planned.

“I don’t particularly like surprises, Dembe,” she says lightly, offering him a smile, even as discomfort worms its way up her spine. Liz has never been fond of the unknown, of not knowing plans. It had rankled her friends and Nick, especially. They had wanted to be spontaneous young adults, to uproot their lives and drive off into the wide world without funds or a plan, to see if there was a place to stay _when they got there_. The uncertainty made her nervous, and though Liz loves to travel, looks forward to doing more of it in the future, a plan and a backup plan are entirely necessary. She refocusses on Dembe, whose eyes are surprisingly bright, a cheeky grin spreading over his normally stony features.

“Neither do I, but that has never bothered Raymond.”

With that he scoops up her handbag, resting as it is on her kitchen bench and passes it to her. They make their way down to the car in silence and as they approach the vehicle, Liz has a brief moment of indecision, not entirely sure if Dembe expects her to seclude herself in the backseat, or to sit with him up the front. Her feet stutter slightly as she decides, hand grasping the passenger side door and yanking it open with too much force. Dembe doesn’t seem to notice and smiles as she sits next to him, fiddling for an unnecessarily long time with her seatbelt.

The car hums to life beneath them and Liz, after asking Dembe, adjusts the volume and radio station, music softly filtering through the speakers in the silence. It is not particularly awkward being with Reddington’s bodyguard, close friend, confidant; they merely sit comfortably next to each other, neither of them forcing conversation. Occasionally Liz will quietly sing along with one of the songs, and Dembe will quietly hum to others. It is when they pull up and park next to the cafe that Liz had met Reddington at a few days prior that she turns to Dembe to ask,

“So, what’s first?”

“Breakfast,” He answers as he clambers out of the car, not as graceful as Reddington would, but agile all the same. Liz follows after him into the quaint shop, a table already reserved for them and surprisingly, food already served. A pile of steaming French toast, topped with fresh berries, maple syrup and banana. A coffee sits on a coaster, presumably in Liz’s seat, the other beverage being a monstrous hot chocolate that Dembe is eyeing off, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. She huffs a smile as she takes a seat, gathering her cutlery into her hands.

“He is controlling, isn’t he?” She remarks, cutting into her meal, watching as the segments of one particular raspberry trapped between knife and fork give way in a spray of red. Dembe laughs, digging into his own meal, simply nodding his head in an exasperated manner.

“We have a strict schedule to stick to,” he replies, finishing his mouthful of food, “Raymond insisted that he deal with all the unnecessarily tedious things to save time, beforehand.”

Liz smiles, files this titbit away for further analysis, not all that surprised that Reddington is _this_ controlling, but interested all the same and certain that it will irritate and exasperate her in the future. The food, unsurprisingly, and rather annoyingly, is delicious, Reddington’s good taste making itself known once more. Her coffee is perfect, as had been the one he had made for her in her apartment the morning before. She still isn’t entirely certain how he seemed to _know_ the amount of sugar she took or that she preferred extra milk. She didn’t call him out on it, just watched with mild distaste as he drank his own concoction, as black as the abyss of space and as bitter as dark chocolate.

Dembe finishes his meal first, practically inhales it with alarming speed, making Liz wonder how _strict_ Reddington’s schedule is. He doesn’t, however, hurry her along, just sits in silence as she delicately cuts and bites at her food, savouring the explosion of flavour the berries and syrup supply. Washing her meal down with the last of her coffee she stands and they walk out, without paying. Liz just internally prays that Reddington has paid over the phone when he had so presumptuously ordered for them.

Buckling up her seatbelt once more, Dembe states that he’ll be driving Liz to a spa, where she will receive a full-body massage, as well as a manicure and pedicure. She declines immediately, and judging by the way Dembe looks at her, perhaps slightly loudly. As he opens his mouth, brows drawn together, and surely about to protest, Liz cuts him off.

“There is no way I’m going to let that happen, Dembe,” she declares, folding her arms across her stomach, “Unless you plan on dragging me in there, I won’t be leaving this car.”

Sam had always said she was stubborn, almost scary in the way her eyes would blaze and jaw would lock. He’d shuck her under the chin, mulishly raised in the air as is it was, and laugh at her, because she was just as stubborn and strong willed as he was. The streak was ingrained in her, only rearing its head now in dire circumstances, the arguments for ice cream and Barbie dolls long forgotten. Stomping her feet, storming off in a huff, had never been a habit she had made as a child, but glaring, gritting her teeth so hard her dentist would scold her, _that_ she had utilised as much as she possibly could. Liz could tell, at this moment, the face that Dembe is staring at, wide eyed and uncomfortable, is the same face Sam had to deal with in her younger years.

“Shall we go to the dress store instead, Miss Scott?” He asks sheepishly, shifting his grip on the steering wheel as he waits for her reply. A swarm of traffic passes by them, flashing behind him through the tinted window.

“I don’t need a new dress, Dembe,” she sighs in exasperation, even as she nods her head, ignoring the way he seems to sigh in relief. She hopes that were Reddington in danger, he would be much more resilient, unbending, than to crumple as he did in the face of her obstinate nature. He pulls out into the traffic, the car falling into line seamlessly. They’re both quiet for the trip, Liz only feeling slightly guilty at the uncomfortable position she has seemed to put Dembe in.

Liz works hard for everything she has; a lesson that her father had taught her from a young age, perhaps the very night of the fire. Throughout high school, she would work part time at a cafe; at first washing dishes and then as she became older, as a waitress. Her income, as well as the small amount of pocket money Sam would indulge her with, flowed straight into her bank account, into her savings. New shoes, new clothes, were luxuries that Liz never spoiled herself with, never wanted. Saving for a dog had been her first endeavour, but Sam had point blank refused, one of the only things he had never made a compromise for. After that, saving had become almost an obsession and Liz found that she was hesitant to touch the money tucked away, safe and undiminished. Her little fingers would slide under the flap of the envelope containing her bank statement each month, eyes widening as she assessed the figures, never noticing Sam standing over her shoulder, an amused expression gracing his haggard features. When Liz began college, some of the money, as is likely to occur during this specific time in a young adult’s life, was spent on alcohol, and the occasional article of clothing to wear to the parties and outings. Still, they were rewards that Liz had worked for, _earned_. The fact that Reddington, though exceedingly wealthy, is willing to shower Liz with gifts and presents she doesn’t _need_ is disconcerting and not entirely appreciated. Gritting her teeth in determination she turns to Dembe.

“And if I refuse to choose a dress?”

He takes his eyes off the road for a moment, to grace her with a smirk, before turning back.

“Then I’ll be forced to choose it for you,” he responds, tone thick with amusement, “And I do not have the taste or love for clothing, like Raymond does.”

She rolls her eyes, but settles back into her seat, spending the remainder of their trip plotting how she will avoid having Reddington make this purchase for her. Her fingers rub along her scar, and thankfully Dembe doesn’t seem to notice, or simply decides not to comment on it. A strand of dread, anxiousness, works its way through her body at the thought of choosing a dress for this _gala_ , knowing the standard at which Reddington holds his attire. She could imagine him now, swanning into a crowded room, dressed in some magnificent tuxedo, adorned with the most expensive of accessories. Liz knows that next to him, she will look dull and bland, just a young girl in over her head. Mentally shrugging her shoulders, she settles on the fact that she will choose whatever she desires and what is most comfortable, Reddington and the rest of the guests be damned.

When Dembe rolls the car to a stop, beside a boutique store just shy of the central business district, he doesn’t immediately get out the car, instead turning in his seat to face her. His expression is nothing to be alarmed about, Liz feels, even though it is seems extremely determined.

“Elizabeth, Raymond will insist that he pays for this dress and that you keep it,” he informs her seriously, until a small, fond smile tugs at his lips, “Accept his gifts. He is a stubborn man and will give you no other choice.”

Liz nods her head slowly, still vaguely uncomfortable with the idea, but noticing how sincere, how genuine Dembe is being, she does not have the heart to refuse. Later tonight she can discuss with Reddington the boundaries he is clearly overstepping, clearly _destroying_. Sliding out of the car the autumn breeze, creeping each day closer to winter, lashes across her face. It causes her eyes to sting, and her ears to ache slightly, an unfortunate injury she had acquired when she was fifteen, jetty jumping. Sam had told her not to jump from such far heights, young and reckless sh had not listened and after landing awkwardly, had done damage to her eardrum and to this day it still causes her trouble. Sam had scolded her as he drove her, _very_ carefully so as not to causes drastic pressure changes, to the hospital. From that day on, she had taken his advice a lot more seriously. With a sigh, she and Dembe hurry inside the store, their clothes getting tugged and tangled in the wind.

The woman that greets them is short, _tiny_ , compared to Dembe’s bulking mass. She is robust, with flaxen curls falling around her shoulders and bright green eyes that immediately alight on Elizabeth. Her hands, strong and scarred, gently grab Liz’s forearm, and with a smile as bright as the sun, the woman unceremoniously drags Liz around the store, pulling out all sorts of frocks and gowns of various colours. Dembe has stepped away, is not seeing the bewildered looks Liz is sending his way, eyes glued to the screen of his phone. For a moment, an _extremely_ brief moment, Liz wonders if he is making contact with his employer, before another dressed is pressed up against her and the woman, who she has discovered is named Lyndy, is excitedly jabbering on about silk, stitching and sequins.

Liz finds herself hustled into a changing room, hands full of coat hangers, the material of the dresses tangling around her legs as she stumbles in. Lyndy tears the curtain of the change room closed with excitement, the silver rings slithering along the bar. Not having had a moment to decide whether she actually _likes_ any of the garments that have been thrust in to her hands, she takes notice now, hanging them individually on the abundance of hooks that line the impressively large room. There are sequined dresses, and lace dresses, dresses with slits up the sides and backless dresses, all in a variety of blues and greens, mostly winter colours, but the red dress, vibrant and bright, causes Liz to smile. She doubts that Lyndy alone decided on that particular garment. As she begins the torturous process of wriggling into numerous amounts of clothing, she can hear the deep rumble of Dembe’s voice and Lyndy chattering with him, about suits and fedoras and when Reddington will be in next to see her.

Dress after dress she steps out to be assessed by the shop assistant, twirled in front of a mirror, walked up and down the store, all the while Dembe watches on in silence, only giving a nod of approval when Liz meets his gaze. When he doesn’t particularly like what she is dressed in, he tends to tilt his head to the side, much like Reddington. Zippers get caught in material, bodices underneath bunch around her waist, every now and then the dreaded sound of stitches ripping pairs with the puffing that Liz emits and she falls still, moving _much_ more cautiously, acutely aware of the price tags dangling on the clothing, all hand written. Finally she tugs on the _last_ dress, the _red_ dress, and predictably, it is stunning. The fit is perfect, accenting every curve, flowing down her body as smooth as water. Lace stretches across her chest, makes the long sleeves that run down to the middle of her forearm. A slit reveals her upper thigh, dangerously high, teasing. The train, pooling around her feet like blood, still allows her to move with grace, with ease.

And when she steps out, when Lyndy _finally_ stops talking, jaw clicking shut and Dembe is smiling brightly at her, she knows that this will be the dress she takes home, even if it fuels Reddington’s narcissistic behaviour. With a slight huff, she spins around in a circle, her bare feet cool on the wooden floorboards. She is aware that her face is as red as the dress, the frustrating amount of energy that goes into trying on clothes, leaving her tacky with sweat. When Lyndy approaches her with a pair of black heels, she smothers a groan and plonks down onto the nearest seat, ignoring Dembe’s huff of laughter. The dress gathers around her, the material silky smooth, cool against her skin.

Thankfully, the first pair of heels fit and suit the gown and before long Liz is back in her knit jumper and jeans. She stands by the counter, shifting on her feet and desperately trying to ignore the figure displayed on the cash register as Dembe pays for Liz’s newest article of clothing. He carries her gear out to the car, the dress bagged and safe as he lays it gently across the backseat, placing the shoebox in the foot-well. Liz is already sitting the car when he makes his way to the driver’s side, feeling awkward and uncomfortable with the unnecessary service, but he doesn’t seem to notice, turning to her with a soft smile on his face.

“I take it you would not be pleased if I were to say that you now have a hair and makeup appointment?”

Liz shakes her head with a soft laugh, thankful that he has recognised her discomfort; she thinks that if he had been Reddington, the Concierge of Crime would have dragged her off either way, despite how she felt about the whole thing.

“Shall we go back to the hotel and see Raymond then?”

That, she nods to, thinking that perhaps at the hotel she will be able to sneak off and get some lunch, her stomach quietly grumbling in agreement. And thankfully, as she grows more fidgety in her seat, hunger relentlessly clawing at her insides, the hotel is only a few blocks away, deeper into the city. The Intercontinental is a great towering building, magnificent stone pillars supporting the enormous structure. A line of taxis queue before the grand entrance, as do copious other flashy cars and sedans like the one Dembe and Liz are currently in. Even from within the vehicle, Liz can see that the reception area is extravagant, all marble floors, artful bouquets of flowers, soft lighting and beautiful antique furniture. A doorman, an older man with a kind smile, opens the door for her, grabs her hand to guide her out and onto the pavement, spotless and most likely brushed every morning. With a nod of thanks and what Liz see’s to be a generous tip, Dembe leads her into the hotel.

The glimpse from outside did not do the reception justice. Chandeliers hang above them, golden and glowing, the crystals that adorn them glinting and sparkling. Rugs, some the size of Liz’s apartment, blanket the floors, the deepest of colours and the most intricate of patterns. The pillars, marble, reach up to the roof and Liz has to crane her neck to see the juncture where ceiling and stone meet. Art decorates the walls, tapestries and painting, portraits. Guests of the hotel mill around the room, all dressed in the most expensive of clothing, all so obviously sophisticated and _wealthy_. She tugs self-consciously on her clothing, hoping that Dembe will not let them linger, will take them straight to the relative safety of Reddington’s suite. Liz knows that he will be dressed similar, doesn’t dismiss the possibility that he _sleeps_ in a suit.

Dembe leads them straight to the elevator, and it is then that Liz notices a young teenager trailing after them, her dress carefully draped over his arm. He does not make eye contact with her, his face a mask, as if he is trying to appear invisible. She wonders how many of the guests ignore his presence entirely, whether in the future this blatant dismissal of his existence will have an effect on him. Tearing her eyes away from him, she steps into the elevator, heart rate stumbling as she realises that she is going to once again be in close quarters with Reddington. She hopes that she will soon get used to the idea. The silence in the lift is suffocating and with chagrin Liz realises that the ride is so quiet because the elevator does not rattle and bump as like the one at home. The quiet _ding_ when they reach their floor isn’t crackling through the speakers either.

The boy follows them diligently down the corridor, only stopping when they reach the suite’s door, passing the dress to Dembe and receiving a generous tip with a small smile and a grateful nod of his head. Liz watches as he darts back down towards the lift, thinking that he is most likely the wealthiest child at his high school. Shaking her head, she steps into the room, as extravagant and outrageously lavish as the rest of the hotel. With all the paintings, the rugs, the gleaming silver and crystal vases, the polished marble floors and dark mahogany furniture, there lacks any kind of personal artefact, nothing that makes the room a _home_. Until Reddington steps out from one of the adjacent rooms, filling the space with his presence, capable of settling _anywhere_ comfortably, smile bright and eyes warm as they rest on her.

He glances down at his watch, an eyebrow quirking as he checks the time. His jacket is missing, but if he had been wearing it, it would have been a deep blue, to match his vest and slacks. The crisp white sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, tie discarded and the top buttons undone to reveal the tanned skin of his chest, a sprinkling of chest hair. Typically, a glass is cradled in his hand, amber liquid shining from within and Liz wonders if there is a time he _isn’t_ drinking. Dembe has disappeared off into the suite, with the dress and shoes and Liz is grateful that Reddington won’t get the chance just yet to gloat about the colour.

“Don’t you have a makeup and hair appointment to be at?” He rumbles in amusement, tilting his head to observe the way she frowns at him, obviously exasperated.  
“I am perfectly capable of doing my own hair and makeup, thank you,” she replies sharply, not willing to back down under his unwavering gaze. Dembe steps back into the room and Liz watches as Reddington’s gaze slowly shifts to the other man. When he looks back at Liz, his expression has softened, he’s smiling at her.

“Of course you are, Lizzie,” he says quietly, and Liz briefly wonders if he is testing her, before he continues, “However, I myself do enjoy a manicure, and you are most welcome to join me.”

A knock sounds behind her and Dembe instantly moves, hand casually hanging by his hip where his gun must be holstered, as he opens the door. Stepping through the threshold, somewhat nervously, is a petite woman, pretty on the eyes, with dark brown hair curling down past her shoulder blades. Her smile is nervous, but her teeth are straight, eyes darting around them room taking each of them in, when they alight on Reddington, she gives him a polite nod.

“Lizzie, this is my dear manicurist, Rose Heredia,” he introduces, striding forwards, offering an arm to the woman who is smiling now at Liz in greeting. Her hands are laden with bags, all sorts of equipment piled within. “How was your flight?”

Liz has to turn away, her eyes meeting with Dembe’s amused ones. She feels as if she should be surprised that Raymond Reddington would fly a specific woman in, from God knows where, to perform a manicure, of all things, but she isn’t. Reddington has led Rosa over to the couch, where she is tying back her hair, before laying out her equipment. Reddington is chatting to her excitedly, in her foreign tongue, fluent and fluid, so totally at home with the words and dialect rolling of his tongue. Everything he does seems so effortless, so natural, his movements, his language, actions, nothing sapping his energy or becoming a struggle. Rosa seems to relax, her smile coming far more easily, her movements not as calculated. She indicates for her employer to sit, and he does so, delicately placing his hand on the cloth she has provided, as if this is a process he goes through frequently.

When Reddington turns to her expectantly, shifting his position on the couch, smile still in place, she makes her way over to stand before him, fidgeting awkwardly on her feet as she waits. His hand, the one not currently grasped in Rosa’s, moves towards her on the cushion before stilling. The movement is telling. So Liz sits beside him, and without falter he launches in to anecdote after anecdote, occasionally murmuring to Rosa in a foreign tongue, needling at Liz’s patience. He tells her stories about the man Rosa is currently dating; a man who is employed as a bullfighter, a man who lost a finger though not due to his profession, but instead when he was fishing. A man with such fast reflexes, who can run from and evade bulls, but is not _quite_ fast enough getting his fingers away from a shark he caught off the coast of Mexico. It is interesting to watch him converse, drawing both she and Rosa in with his enthusiasm, his stifled hand gestures as Rosa files his nails. Dembe brings drinks, sits opposite them in silence, offering Reddington a smile or two when he glances over to him. He is at ease in this hotel, with Dembe, obviously, and apparently with Rosa, and with _her_ , the fledgling FBI agent he has so quickly and without thought, brought under his wing.

“Rosa was trained at the Latin American School of Medicine,” he says during a rare lull in conversation.

“You went to medical school?” Liz asks Rosa with vaguely concealed surprise.

“Oh yes,” she replies, voice heavily accented, “I was studying to be a trauma surgeon.”

“Dropped out in the last year,” Reddington whispers, and Liz snaps her head back to meet his gaze. She feels her lips pull into a thin line, quirks a brow at him. He immediately looks amused, as if he knows he has been caught out, is impressed by her intuition. She toys with her words, wonders if she should give him the satisfaction.

“Dropped out or paid to leave? A trauma surgeon, official or not would be handy to have nearby for someone like you.”

Neither of them replies, Reddington merely grins at her, eyes sparking as if he is proud, and a pink blush creeps over Rosa’s cheeks, her eyes entirely avoiding Liz’s. She thinks that perhaps it was discourteous of her to approach the topic with Reddington while Rosa was in the room, impolite. Swallowing down her guilt, she offers Rosa a wobbly smile, which the other woman nods her head at, focussing back onto Reddington’s digits. His fingers are elegant, nails now polished and cleaned, sculptured. Tanned skin is dusted with golden hairs on each of his knuckles, no sign of the lives he has taken, no blood blemishing the smooth skin. The veins that run through them are like cords, some softly tinged with blue, just tucked away under the surface, so vulnerable. They twitch every now and then, with the rising of his deep voice; they fidget with the rising excitement of his story. A man that is so in control of his features, giving telltale signs with his body, no matter how he suppresses them under his suits and dulls them with his cigars and drink. He is human and it is as intriguing as it is horrifying.

“Thank you, Rosa,” Reddington says kindly, expecting his expertly polished and filed nails, “Lizzie, would you like a turn?”

Rosa turns to her expectantly, eyes smiling even if her mouth is hidden behind her blue mask. Liz nods her head, conceding with reluctance, and shifts seats with Reddington, feeling the warmth from his body seeping into her. She rests her hand down on the cloth, ignoring the feeling of her cuticles being pushed back, the gritty feeling of the nail file wearing away at her nails, the rough metal occasionally brushing against her fingertips. Reddington looks all too pleased with himself, so Liz closes her eyes, relaxes into the soft cushions as Rosa does her work, ignoring him entirely. Eventually she feels him stand, and after cracking an eyelid open, watches him make his way to the kitchen, briefly patting Dembe on the shoulder. Her eyes slips shut once more.

With a tap on her shoulder and Rosa murmuring softly, Liz wakes to find that her nails have been well taken care of, thankfully not painted bright red, but polished and shining. She smiles and says her thanks, eyes flickering over the room for either Dembe or Reddington. Neither of them is to be seen and she looks at Rosa uncertainly as she gathers her gear. Liz glances around for Reddington’s jacket, not too fussed about rifling through his pockets and finding his wallet if it meant she could pay Rosa.

“Has Reddington paid you?” She asks with an uncomfortable smile, hoping that one of the men would soon return and deal with the transaction. No one emerges from the adjoining rooms as Rosa stands, nodding her head at Liz.

“Oh yes, Mr Reddington has already organised it.”

With a sigh of relief, Liz bids Rosa goodbye, guiding her out of the hotel suite and watching her wander down the corridor. Such a seemingly innocent woman, nothing of significant note, entangled with one of the most elusive and dangerous criminals, tending to hands that have shot, stabbed, and throttled their way into forming and sculpting an empire, a _kingdom_ of ill intent. Liz closes the door quietly behind her, turning and looking into the empty suite. Tentatively, she wanders deeper into the room, peering down corridors, listening for the deep rumble of their voices. She can hear them, murmuring, and moving further down the hallway, peers around the corner and into the study.

They are hunched over a document, talking in hushed tones, falling silent when Reddington looks over to the doorway, his expression serious. Liz takes a timid step into the room, waiting for him to smile at her, for his face to light up as it tends to do when he looks upon her. It doesn’t, but he does approach her, manila folder in hand. Stopping just in front of her, the tips of his leather shoes touching those of her boots, coming perilously close to invading her personal space, he says,

“Ah, Lizzie, how did it all go?” He grasps her hand gently, raises it to his eye level and scrutinises her nails. Nodding his head firmly in satisfaction, he releases her. “I suggest that we both begin to get ready for our night ahead. Dembe will bring us something to eat before we go.”

He leads her out of the study, leaving Dembe behind to order them room service, and down the corridor to a bedroom. Cracking open the door, the room is just as splendid as the rest of the suite, the pristine white sheets of the bed stark in the dark colours. The splash of red splayed over it, blaring against the bleached white, draws both sets of eyes immediately. Surprisingly, Reddington stays quiet in regards to Liz’s attire, merely stating that there are an assortment of toiletries and make-ups in the ensuite, that _everything_ has been organised, which Liz frowns at, contemplating how he knew she would refuse to go to the make-up appointment. She thanks him, and smiles as the door clicks shut, before pulling off her clothing and padding her way into the shower.

Small tubes, a great assortment of them, are positioned by the sink, varying types of shampoos with different brands, different scents, conditioners, soaps and body gels. There are moisturisers and natural oils, make-ups, and even varying toothpastes. Every possibly taste, preference, is catered for and Liz can’t help but make her way through all the bottles, flicking off the lids and inhaling, taking care to decide on her favourites. With them in hand, almost spiling from her grasp, she places them all on the floor of the shower, the sheer size of it overwhelming; almost the size of Liz’s _entire_ bathroom. The showerheads, wide gleaming pieces of metal, the size of dinner plates, douse her naked body in warm water when she flicks on the taps. She takes her time washing, using all the products at her disposal, exfoliating, shaving, lathering her hair, pampering herself.

When she steps out the shower, she grabs a towel from the rack. They are thick, the gentle softness of Egyptian cotton under her water-wrinkled fingers. She wraps herself in their embrace, making her way through the steam of the bathroom and out into the bedroom, snagging a bottle of moisturiser on her way out. Her legs are smooth, not as tanned as she would like, the sun not having kissed them as the season creeps into the chill of winter. As she towels at her hair, wraps it up and balances it on her head, there is a knock at the door and she freezes, stark naked.

“Lizzie,” Reddington’s voice says, muffled through the door, “The food has arrived, take your time, we’ll save you some.”

And with that she can hear his footsteps retreat down the corridor and she feels as if she can breathe again. Hurriedly, she tugs on her underwear, just simple cotton and not well suited to her dress at all. Glancing around the room, she recalls that Reddington had said that _everything_ had been catered for. Making her way over to a set of draws, she opens one to discover quite a variety of underwear. She looks at the garments; all with their tags still attached, and she swallows back the feeling of discomfort it brings her, quickly discovering that boundaries with Reddington do not exist. The black lace underwear and matching bra she chooses are practical, and comfortable.

Deciding to forgo dinner, past the state of hunger, assuming that there will be some at the gala, she begins her hair. Twisting it up into a bun, artfully messy, she sticks _countless_ pins into it, to insure it remains in place. Loose locks caress her cheeks, framing her face, adding a softness to her sharper than usual features. Her appetite has still not fully returned; her pronounced cheekbones like pillars of grief for Sam. Glancing at the mirror, she begins her make-up. Smokey eyes and red lipstick, is what she settles on, staring at her underwear clad body in the mirror, the dress resting behind her like a blazing beacon. Turning, she picks up the garment, feels the silk and lace under her fingers and breathes deeply. She is nervous, her stomach twisting into knots as she slips the material over her head. It fits as it did in the store, wholly, flawlessly. The zipper, she had learnt, was impossible to do by herself. So with great trepidation, after she has tugged on her heels, she makes her way out into the lounge, greeted by the site of the two men picking at a tray of tapas.

Reddington has his back to her and is dressed in a tuxedo, as she had predicted. Dembe looks as if he will be staying home, dressed as casually as he is, and Liz frowns at the thought; Reddington would look bizarre without his looming shadow, his steadfast companion. When Dembe stops eating, stares over his shoulder with a small smile, Reddington turns in his seat, stopping sharply when his eyes come to rest on Liz. The dip on the flatbread he is holding, drops with a splat down on the table; a few centimetres more and it would have landed on his trousers. It seems that only Dembe and Liz notice the near miss.

“Lizzie,” he murmurs her name, not dissimilar to the way he first spoke to her in the warehouse, the first time she had laid eyes upon him. It’s breathless, stunned, and _in awe_. The tone of his voice is rough, like steel rasping over stone, almost _erotic_. His tongue rolls over his teeth, pink between his parted lips, briefly running over them as well. She finds herself smiling at him, releasing a shaky breath and feeling heat tinge her cheeks and neck under his watchful gaze.

He looks at her like she is art; hours spent forging herself into something beautiful, inspiring, something _worth_ looking at. He looks at her like she is art; afraid to touch, sure that his fingers are impure, will smudge her delicate features. He looks at her like she is art; a landscape, a roaring sea, a dark forest, a sunset, a portrait, a _memory_. He stares and he stares, eyes drifting over every inch of her skin, heat trailing in their wake. He looks at her like she is _everything_.

When she realises he won’t speak, that he possibly _can’t_ , she smirks at him and takes a step forward, eyes drawn to his bowtie, not even slightly crooked. He manages to smile back at her, clears his throat once, and as he goes to speak, Liz cuts him off.

“You look very smart,” she compliments, meeting his gaze. He tilts his head at her, a frown creasing his brows before smoothing. Huffing out a laugh he thanks her, and noticing that her dress is still undone at the back, he moves around her, fingertips brushing along her spine, shivers trailing in their wake. He then offers her food, drink, both of which she declines. So, with one last bite of his meal, he decides that they may as well head to the event early, get in before everyone else does. He seems slightly flustered and it makes Liz’s cheeks ache from her grin, even as she takes his arm and is led down to the car. Eyes track them through the foyer; the women’s drawn to Reddington and the men’s drawn to Liz. She feels him tug her closer and she obliges. The length of her body, the slit in her dress, is pressed up against him until they split, sliding into the car and secluding themselves from the leering outside world.

Dembe moves the sedan into the night and they are on the road once more, white and red lights gliding past them like hovering jewels, diamonds and rubies. Liz isn’t entirely sure where they are even going, thinks that there couldn’t possibly be a more magnificent building than the one they just exited. Reddington sits silently beside her, fiddling with his cufflinks, tugging at his sleeves. The lights paint over his features, highlight his golden lashes, jade eyes, silvering sideburns. He looks handsome, even with his expression so blank, as it is at this moment. The cupid bow of his lips cradles a shadow, as does the dip in his chin. She wonders if this man, this enigma, is carrying a weapon, has it tucked away beneath his suit, hidden from the outside world until he feels it is fit to release it. He is dangerous, ridiculously so, but Liz cannot seem to tear herself away from him, finds herself drawn to him, as if in orbit. It is terrifying, intoxicating.

They roll to a stop, not far from where they began, and the building towers up into the sky. Warm and inviting light spills onto the road, onto the gleaming bitumen, a sprinkling of rain having begun to fall from the cloudy sky. From the car they step onto a carpet, not red, but black, leading to the stair case, once again made of white marble, damp now. A man comes to greet them, obviously a member of staff, dressed all in black. He greets Reddington with a bow of the head, eyes lingering a little too long on Liz. They climb their way up the stairs, queuing behind the other guests making their way through security. She finds that she is eyeing Reddington nervously; worried he will be detected, apprehended, _taken away_. He looks completely at ease, however, and when he catches her staring, he smiles encouragingly, leading her the last few steps where a man gently scans them both with a metal detector, before admitting them in.

The room opens out before them, glamorous and alluring. Positioned as they are, above the ballroom, there are great stone staircases that coil down, allowing access to the guests that mill about the room, so sophistically dressed, murmuring amongst themselves, embracing old friends and business partners. Music lulls around them, soft violins and cellos, a band tucked away in the corner, couples swaying before them. There are towering bouquets of flowers, colourful and fragrant, tables laden with glasses of champagne. Waiters and waitresses dart through the room unnoticed until they so politely offer drinks and food. Once more, hanging from the ceiling, high above them, are golden and illuminated chandeliers. The filigree is intricate and gleaming as it runs along where wall and ceiling meet, sparkling in the low light. Tables are lit with candles, the wax slowly dripping onto blindingly white cloths. The beauty of the place is overwhelming, and Liz takes a moment to stare, hand still gripping Reddington’s arm.

“Shall we join the crowd?” Reddington murmurs in her ear, lips brushing against skin, causing her to jump slightly, before nodding her head, watching as his eyes scan the throng of dignitaries. They descend the stairs at a slow pace; Liz bunching her dress so the train does not tangle in her heels. She finds that she is still pressed to Reddington’s side, can smell his cologne, refreshing, like the sea, tinged with lemongrass.

It is if as soon as he steps onto the floor, they become the centre of attention, bodies turning fully to look at them, magnetised. Women track Reddington with lust filled gazes, eyes clouded with desire. Men head to the back of the room, where a bar stretches from end to end, to buy drinks, to buy the best scotch they can afford, neat, like Reddington prefers it. The room seems to convert into a hive, hurried movements, but silent, eerily so, as if they hope he does not notice their obvious actions, tactics. Liz feels as if it is the calm before the storm, and rightly so. Reddington smiles to someone in the crowd and then it becomes a race, to see which associates, business partners, allies, can approach the Concierge of Crime first.

They are swarmed, and Liz feels wildly overwhelmed. He introduces her to couple after couple, man after man, woman after woman, embracing each and all of them with a smile on his face and joy in his tone. Some of them look upon her with barely concealed disdain, judge her age, her gender. Her importance is _nothing_ compared to Reddington, but when he turns to her, when he looks at her and his eyes seem that tiny bit brighter, smile seemingly more genuine, she smiles back. She greets these strangers even as they glare, give limp handshakes, those that come across cold and hostile towards her, but still so polite to Reddington. And those that dismiss her are quickly dismissed themselves by Reddington, expertly so, leaving them wondering about his concealed insults and quick departure. And there are many that are kind to her, welcome her, include her in their conversations, even as she notices Reddington steering the discussion in whatever direction he desires, away from the more dubious of his dealings. They offer her champagne and ask how she met Raymond, Red, Reddington, the _old dog_ , and while she sputters for a reply the man himself cuts in, offering a story, silky smooth and without falter.

When she finally escapes, her cheeks hurting from smiling, both authentic and fake, and finds herself sitting at the bar, desperately seeking solitude, she discovers that her eyes are always drawn back to him. He is mesmerising to watch, the way he converses with others with such ease, holds the attention of all. Out of those that flock around him, it is easy to see who is there out of duty, out of pure fear, Liz can see it in their eyes, in the way they fiddle with their hands, their drinks. Others are there for love, for respect, some that simply _adore_ Reddington, no matter the atrocities he has committed. She sees politicians speaking with him in hushed tones, the corruption of the American Government so blatantly obvious before her eyes. And others speak close to his ear when they believe no one to be looking, organising shady dealings that Liz wants no part of. A twinge in her gut, alerts her to the fact that she should be disgusted by his behaviour, furious that he would so willingly break the law, and blatantly in front of her. Instead she only feels forfeit, is even slightly amused by it. He is magnificent, charismatic, electric, _addictive_. Liz can’t seem to tear her eyes away, and he catches her staring, his eyes returning to her as frequently as she looks for him. He’ll offer her a smile, a nod, and return to his companions, understanding that she needs time alone, is overwhelmed.

He drinks and drinks, scotch and champagne, the only visual affect is the red tinge creeping up his ears. Liz knows that he is well acquainted with the effects of alcohol, is able to keep his body under complete control, drinking as much and as habitually as he does. Solicitously he accepts every drink offered, and Liz wonders how a man such as him can _trust_ these people, criminals, what makes him feel _safe_. Every now and then, when he looks back to check on her, he’ll raise a drink in her direction, as if in a silent toast.

It is later into the night, after she has turned down several persistent men that she realises that they came to this gala for a _reason_ , for a _Blacklister_. Reddington hasn’t mentioned anything to her, and she, caught up in the events of the day, in Reddington’s constant chatter, hadn’t thought to ask earlier in the evening. She glances around the room now, sceptically, wondering if her eyes have roamed over their target unknowingly. There is no hope in telling, in even knowing if there actually _is_ a target, unless she braves the crowds to find Reddington, which she currently does not feel like attempting. The thought crosses her mind that Reddington purely brought her here for her company, that there is no Blacklister, no target, just a night out, something to get her out of the house.

“Hello,” a voice greets from behind her and startled Liz turns on her chair to meet chocolate brown eyes staring back at her. The stranger smiles brightly, his curly hair tied back into a ponytail and his eyes are inviting. “I’m Jordan.”

She greets him, shakes his offered hand and indulges in general small talk, even accepts the drink he so kindly orders for her. Still, her eyes graze over the room, searching for Reddington, whom she cannot see. Jordan is nice, has just joined an extremely successful law firm, and is absolutely in awe by the guests at this particular event. Liz simply smiles at him, agrees, even though she realises he has not the slightest _clue_ about the men and women that surround him. After another drink, one that this time she said she did not need, but that he ordered anyway, Liz is beginning to tire of his incessant chattering. She isn’t particularly interested in what college he attended, where he has travelled, the famous public figures he has met through his work. He is trying to be kind, that she can recognise, but it is quickly growing tiresome. When he asks her to dance, persisting when she declines, Liz finds herself unwillingly dragged out onto the dance floor, pulled uncomfortably close to his chest, his hands dangerously low on her hips.

Sam had always taught Liz to be independent, strong and assertive with men. As a young girl, he had raised her to stand up for herself, taught her that she was an equal, worthy of _everyone’s_ respect. And Liz had believed him, had tried desperately to make him proud and in the process put many boys and men in their place during both school and college. Until she had met Nick, Liz believed that she would never fall vulnerable to the harmful words that could be uttered by the opposite sex. He had been scathing, but she had forgiven him, she had _loved_ him, and as he whispered and yelled and flippantly belittled her, the confidence she had built, all those years ago under the watchful eye of Sam, had crumbled.

That is why she finds herself dancing with this stranger, her rhythm awkward and entirely uncomfortable. She feels herself tripping over her feet, his feet, and when his brows draw into an irritated frown, she gathers her courage around her, prepares herself to thank him for the dance and disappear in to the crowd, to dismiss his advances. As she opens her mouth, Jordan rocks to a stop, eyes looking quizzically over her shoulder.

“Would you mind if I have this next dance?” Reddington’s voice rumbles behind her, so deep, so soothing. She pulls away from Jordan, is smiling before she turns, relieved to have found him. He places his palm delicately on her hip, enclosing her small hand in his own, dry and warm. A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, encouraging.

Of course he leads, without falter, as fluent a dancer as he is in everything else in life. Liz follows, without stumbling, without stepping on his toes, her eyes glued to his. They flow around the room, her dress fanning out around her legs as he spins her. She laughs with him as he guides her, murmuring advice, commenting when she gets _too_ close to his toes. Other couples dance around them, gossiping about Raymond Reddington and the young girl on his arm. Neither of them notice, Reddington used to being a spectacle to the masses, and Liz entirely enraptured in their dance, focussing on not tripping, on the smile he is bestowing upon her. When she steps closer, his grip tightening around her waist, possessive in nature, all she can feel is his warmth, all she can see is the flecks of gold in his eyes, and smell the sea.

“What about our Blacklister?” she merely has to whisper, pressed as close to his chest as she is. He is looking down at her so fondly, endearingly, as if the potential of some assassin, terrorist, child slaver, lurking around them is of no matter, that she shouldn’t worry herself.

“They didn’t show,” he replies, “I’m not entirely sure, nor interested, as to why. I’ve found another target, another organisation, but I will need to gather further information before I am able to indulge the details.”

She frowns at him, and as he laughs at her, releasing her hand, warm now, smoothing a thumb across her brow, wiping the crinkling lines soft. The action stuns her, and for a moment all she can do is look at him, his eyes focussing more on his fingertips as they brush back tendrils of her hair. When he glances back down, tongue running along his lips, she lets out a breath and the music softens around them, drifting off until it is nothing. They remain, Reddington with his hand on her hips and hers on his shoulders, on the dance floor long after the song has finished. It is Reddington that steps away first, leading her away and back into the crowds by the hand. She finds that she doesn’t let go, is unwilling to do so, as is Reddington.

He says his goodbyes as the throngs of people begin to thin, the night crawling to morning and drowsiness weighing down Liz’s limbs. She knows that he will take her back to his hotel, will expect her to stay the night, and she will do so, feels _safe_ with he and Dembe, as disconcerting as it seems when she thinks on it too long. To the men and women that were kind to her, made her feel welcome, she bids them farewell as well, specifically searches through the crowds to do so.

And then they are stepping out into the street, the drizzling rain still settled above the city. Dembe is waiting for them, and Reddington opens the door and ushers her inside hurriedly, out of the rain. They’re on their way almost instantaneously, and through the trip Liz has to battle the fatigue that plagues her, deepens her breathing, tugs at her eyelids. She thinks that Reddington has noticed, hearing him smother a huff of laughter as her head sags to her chest. Liz is exceedingly grateful when they arrive at Reddington’s latest hotel, dragging her weary body out the car and through the foyer as if on autopilot. She can feel his hand on her elbow, see him smiling at the staff they pass, until they are safely enclosed in the elevator. Liz lets her head thud against the cool steel walls, blinking heavily. They snap open with the ding of the doors.

Dembe is the first through the door of their suite, and even through the haze of her thickening exhaustion, Liz can see his hand hovering over his weapon. As soon as they are through the door, both of the men, after Reddington deposits Liz on the couch, head to the fridge. They crack open the right hand side of the double-door steel monster, to reveal the freezer, tubs of sorbet. Dembe gets three bowls out and Reddington serves, Liz watching from her place on the couch, the cushions enveloping her form. She flicks off her shoes as Dembe brings her a bowl, the two scoops bright red, raspberry sorbet. In the peripheral of her vision, she can see Reddington fossicking around in a draw, before revealing a chessboard. Sucking on a spoonful of her frozen treat, the sweet and sour tastes exploding on her tongue, a harmony of flavours, she watches as Reddington prepares the board.

He sits across from Dembe, white pieces moving first. Liz follows the match through bleary eyes, wondering if this is how Reddington finishes his evenings after a night socialising; a bowl of ice cream and a game of chess. Of course there is scotch, a crystal tumbler by his elbow. He sips at it after each move, his eyes darting over the board, sparing a glance for nothing but the game. A skilled tactician, it is the only way to describe him, as he moves piece after piece, in a pattern and strategy that only he knows. It makes sense as to why he rose to power so easily, constructed his powerful empire, all while evading the ever watchful eye of Governments and secret services. He is brilliant, intelligent, his mind a whirling mass of tactics, plans, a million solutions to every possible problem that may arise. Dembe holds his own, a grim expression on his face as he sacrifices one of his pieces. Liz can see that Reddington has tutored the younger man, his own strategies similar to that of the Concierge of Crime’s, just not as potently lethal.

She tries to stay awake, tucked into the corner of the couch, tries to watch the men finish their game. Her bowl, empty now, rests on the carpeted floor, spoon a strip of silver inside it. Eyes focussed on the glinting metal, she doesn’t realise when they slide shut, doesn’t notice the blackness creeping into her vision, her limbs twitching as she falls into slumber. The men sitting across from her, however, do. Reddington is looking upon her with a soft smile, daring to drag his eyes away from the board. Their quiet murmuring does bring her back to reality, rouses her from sleep, eyes remaining stubbornly closed.

“Would you like me to move her?” She can hear Dembe ask, his voice and accent so distinctive, seemingly more so now that she cannot see him. There is a shifting of material, closer.

“No,” Reddington whispers from above, “I’ll handle it.”

She feels his fingertips, feather-light, drag away the tendrils of hair that have fallen into her face; she feels them run over her scalp. Goosebumps rise over her skin in their wake, a shiver running through her body. Opening bleary eyes, she looks at him, smiling softly, sleepily, before murmuring and burying her head into the back of the couch. Reddington’s soft, amused, laughter peels through the room, and then he says her name, tells her to go to bed. She doesn’t respond, only buries her face deeper, blocking out the light and hoping the darkness will welcome her into a dreamless sleep. The firm hands, sliding under her knees, around her back, the assault on her senses, startle her. The lemongrass, the scent of him, envelops her as he lifts her into his arms, pulling her to his chest as he did when they danced earlier in the night. Feeling secure, his gait steady as they move through the room, she curls her fingers into his shirt, nuzzles into the warmth of his body, certain the cool sheets of her bed will be a shock to her system once she slides under them.

Thankfully, the door to her room is already open and he is able to walk in without having to jostle her around to free a hand. She cracks open her eyes as he approaches the bed, but instead of lying her upon it, he puts her down on her feet, giving her no option but to stand, her dress falling around her. He spins her in a slow circle, and Liz is aware of the growing tension, the growing intimacy of the moment, as his hands glide up the small of her back, over shoulder blades to rest at the base of her neck, fiddling with the zip. The sound of the metal sliding on metal is like an earthquake in the silence, a slow steady rumble as the ridges give way to reveal soft pale skin. Reddington’s warm breath brushes over her neck, her skin, he is standing so _close_.

And then he is not, stepping away from her and turning his back, giving her a moment of privacy to change, to pull on a cotton tee and pyjama shorts. She studies his profile, his shoulders and back, notices that they are broad, strong, even hidden as they are beneath the inky black jacket of his tuxedo. Running a hand through her hair, thinking of the peaceful night, the _enjoyable_ night she has had, she gathers her courage around her, cracks her lips apart and murmurs,

“Thank you for tonight,” she gestures to the dress, draped delicately over a coat hanger and hanging in the wardrobe, when he turns back to her, “Thank you for _everything_.”

“It was my pleasure, Lizzie,” he murmurs, smiling at her. Nodding his head once, he spins on his heel, making his way out of her room, to retire for the evening. He freezes when she calls him back, hand gripping the handle of her door. His eyes are steady, serious when he looks back at her, never seeming so _green_ before. She takes a breath, not entirely sure what she wants, what she is _feeling_.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Her voice is so quiet, so unsteady and the longer the silence drags on as he stares at her, the faster she feels the heat burning up her neck, the tremble in her fingers growing to a shake. And then he is stepping back into her room, deftly unknotting his bowtie, before shedding his jacket, his watch and placing it all delicately on the chest of drawers.

Liz has slid under the covers by the time he is ready. He looks nervous, uncertain, the twitch under his left eye jumping as he meets her gaze. She nods his head at him, giving her consent in silence, just as he asked for it. Pulling back the soft quilt he scoots across the mattress, body an arm’s length away from her. Leaning over, still clothed in his dress shirt, he flicks off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. With the flood of shadow that fills the empty spaces, comes Liz’s courage, her boldness. She wriggles across until she can press her hand against his chest, rising with every breath he takes, even the sharp inhale when she first makes contact. An arm snakes over her waist, pulls her closer and she finds her legs entangling with his, fingertips trace up and down her spine in a steady rhythm. He presses a soft kiss to her forehead, lips lingering as he whispers against her skin,

“Goodnight, Lizzie. Sleep well.”

And she does, falling asleep well before her companion, warm and swathed in his scent, in his protection. It is when she wakes early in the morning, before the sun has leaked over the horizon, that she finds that he has held her tightly throughout the night, pressed closer to him than in the beginning. She snuggles nearer, ignoring her full bladder, his breath over her skin lulling her back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you it was going to be big and then I got to 5000 words and they hadn’t even made it to the gala and I knew it was going to be a whole new level of huge. This song, and chapter to be honest, is what inspired this entire fic, so I really really hope I did it justice and you enjoyed it!


	11. Thoughts Of You Consume

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Stay with me a little longer,  
> I will wait for you,  
> Shadows creep,  
> And want grows stronger,  
> Deeper than the truth.” – War of Hearts, Ruelle
> 
> Trigger Warning; He’s back. I’m sorry. It’s painful for me too.

Liz wakes slowly, quilt tucked up to her neck, eyes blinking in the dim lighting of the room. Her mouth is dry, curls tangled around her face, thin strands wrapped around the velvety skin of her neck. Shifting she finds that the hairs on Reddington’s legs are soft against her smooth skin, trousers having ridden up during the night, their limbs tangled. Her arm is draped over his torso, head cushioned on his chest. Gently it rises and falls, the steady beat of his heart thrumming through muscle and bone until Liz can hear it. Tilting her head up, mouth a breath away from brushing the underside of his jaw, she watches his face, lax in sleep. His lips are parted, eyelashes streaks of gold under his eyes, smooth skin hiding fields of green, shining _jade_. The arm that runs along her back, palm pressed to her upper thigh, tugs her closer to him, the cords in his arms tightening. Liz finds her leg hooked over his, all too aware of how inappropriate the position is. Yet, she does not move, swallows down the guilt, rids it from her system, stems the flow through her blood. Safe is how she feels in this moment, and she does not want it to be tainted. He is just a man, a human, in sleep, not the king of a criminal empire.

Reddington wakes slowly and then all at once, his piercing green gaze meeting hers as soon as they are revealed. A smile tugs at his lips immediately after, hand sliding off her thigh. Liz shifts her leg away from him as he heaves a sigh, arches his back slightly and stretches his arms above his head, cat-like in nature. Her body moves with him, head rising as he yawns afterwards. When his hand drops down to the bare skin of her back, her shirt having also ridden up through the night, he begins to draw circles with his rough knuckles, she can’t help but smile.

“Sleep well?” He asks and his voice is husky, sleep riddled, as seductive as ever. With his spare hand, the one not causing Liz’s skin to tingle, he rubs at his eyes. She wonders when the last time he slept this well was, or slept at all for that matter, noting the heavy bags under his eyes.

“You snore,” she says, a complete lie of course, but she wants to study his shocked expression, hoping to have startled him. Fearing that awkwardness will seep into them both, a realisation, if she admits that she hadn’t slept so deeply, so soundly, since Sam’s death. He closes his eyes, grins up at the ceiling.

“I _do not_ snore,” he growls. Her laughter filters around the room and soon he joins her, eyes squinted closed in joy. The blankets are tangled around them and Liz is loathe to move, but when they both regain their breath, Reddington nudges her into a sitting position, makes his way out of the bed and disappears into his own room. He comes back with his chosen suit for the day, cream in colour, before heading into the bathroom.

He is gone for several minutes, remerging in a crisp shirt and freshly shaven. Smiling at her as he walks past, Liz watches as he assembles his suit, his _armour_. Wool drapes over his shoulders, hugs his sides, silk slides against the soft skin of his neck. Nimble fingers deftly button the fitted vest, lace Italian leather shoes. He is efficient, practiced, not a crease in his clothing and tie, neatly knotted. Liz watches, with increasing awareness, as the Concierge of Crime materialises before her eyes. Uneasiness slinks its way into her body, corrosive to the blissful state of relaxation she has found herself in. She shifts from the bed, as he tugs once on his jacket, eyes assessing his image in the mirror before turning to her.

“I am sorry, Lizzie, I won’t be around for breakfast” he declares, “I have a meeting to attend.”

He doesn’t meet her eyes and Liz _knows_ it is about something she would abhor; drugs, weapons, _assassination_. It doesn’t matter. Acutely aware of the man she spent the night with, drank with, danced with, _slept_ with, her head on his heart and his hand tangled in her hair, she darts into the bathroom with a nod, stating that she needs a shower. She can hear his voice, slightly strained, through the door as she strips, hands shaking.

“I’ll arrange a cab for you to get home,” and when she does not respond, “Either Dembe or I will contact you about our next Blacklister.”

There is the soft sound of footsteps over carpet, the click of the door and then nothing. Liz breathes deeply, closes her eyes for a moment, adrenaline thrumming through her body. She had been rude, impolite, but she is shaken, realising the close, the _vulnerable_ , proximity she had put herself in the night before. Reddington is dangerous. His eyes flickering from molten jade to harsh flint in moments, voice amorous and then savage, hands empty until his trigger finger itches and bullets burst from the barrel of his gun, recoil seemingly having no affect on his steady and true aim. He can interrupt a conversation, correct Liz’s posture and leave searing fingerprints on her skin like a lover before pulling his weapon and burying a bullet in an unarmed man. Handmade suits unblemished from food spills are marred by the spray of blood, his namesake blooming over the starched collar of his dress shirts. He is volatile, unpredictable, _soft_ then hard then soft again. So she showers quickly, cards her fingers through her hair as she calms down, fights for dominance over her emotions. There had been no danger; she had _never_ been at risk, wrapped in his arms, embrace, she had felt _safe_ , comforted. Perhaps that is what she fears most, that this monster can appear so human, that she may become _attached_ to a man with such a fearful reputation.

Stepping out of the bathroom, locating her own pile of clothing, she notices that a stillness has fallen over the hotel suite. There is no deep rumble of their male voices, no sound of either of them clattering around the kitchen, no music playing and the white noise of a television is absent. It is the type of stillness that filled her apartment, leaked through it like gas, after Sam’s death. Emptiness.

She is alone.

Dressing quickly and stumbling out into the living room after having gathered her things, she leaves, leaves the night before behind her, leaves her conflicted emotions about Raymond Reddington locked in the room they shared; the apprehension, the tenderness. Lace and silk she has delicately placed on the bed, draped over it, looking like blood amongst snow. He will contact her, said he would do so, and she will wait, blanket herself with professionalism. There would be no need for galas, for conversations over a shared breakfast, no need to find herself cocooned in his warmth. Their relationship would be one of business, nothing more. She will not let his lifestyle consume her. Liz needs normality, stability; a life where she can go to work and come home to a loving family. So as she makes her way down the corridor to the elevator, not passing a soul on her way, she takes out her phone, messages Tom.

He replies before the elevator has hit the ground floor, saying that he will be at her house in an hour. She tries to smile at the thought, tries to look forward to the Chinese he has promised and his company. Eagerness should be an admired trait, but Liz already feels exhausted, hopes that he is willing to do _all_ the chatting, will let her contribute with a nod or a smile, before rambling on about the children in his class. Perhaps they could _actually_ watch a movie this time.

Passing through the reception, she takes no notice of the grandeur, her head bowed, eyes trained to the tips of her boots. She does not belong here, in this place of gold and sophistication. Sam had raised her in their humble home, taught her to love what she had, and modest is what she had grown accustomed to. Going through college, Liz had learned that she could survive on basics, that it wasn’t uncomfortable or difficult for her to do so. She prides herself on being a practical and capable woman, not putting her faith in material possessions, but in her work, her embryonic career. When she wants to splash out, the clothes she pays for are on special, the hotels she stays in are decided upon after _hours_ of combing through websites for the best deal. This hotel, this hotel of _splendour_ and majesty, is the life Reddington can afford, the life he flourishes in, even with his money smeared with blood. Liz belongs in no part of it.

Stepping out of the doors, heels clacking on the polished marble, she finds there is a taxi waiting for her. One of the bellboys hastens to open the passenger door, a young man with a boyish smile, eyes still glinting after Liz hands him a tip that must be positively _measly_ compared to what Reddington and the other occupants of the building would have given him. She slides into the vehicle, the typical smell of a taxi wafting around her; body odour masked by fake flowery fragrance. Rattling off her address, Liz sinks into the leather, fingers linked around her phone, the burner phone Reddington had given her, never far from reach. With each stroke of her fingertips along the screen she waits for a call from Reddington, _hating_ herself for her impatience, hating _him_ for the way he has threaded rope through her being, tugging her closer and _closer_. Chewing on the inside of her lip, she glares out the window, shoving the mobile beneath her thigh, redirecting her thoughts.

During her schooling years, when she was just an adolescent girl struggling her way through a mountain of homework and the tenuous foundations of her social life, Liz discovered that she found herself more at ease with her teachers than her peers. They offered more stimulating conversations; an insight into what the wide world is like after the confines of school. They shared experiences, both intentional and unintentional, that gave Liz her first chances at profiling, to see how these men and women were _molded_ , what made them who they were to that day. Life lessons that were invaluable were granted to her, particularly by one gentleman; her history teacher. He had been a great bear of a man, as hairy and fierce as the grizzly Liz had spotted when she and Sam travelled through Alaska when she was but a girl. So many of the students feared him, _despised_ him, a man of intimidating nature with a sharp tongue and a simmering anger, the type of anger that is laced with disappointment. A man that Liz had never been able to pin down, to profile; he had been so selfish in nature, his words unforgiving, brutal, but so willing to give to those who simply _asked_. His actions were always _kind_. Liz had been greatly confounded by him, her entire schooling life, graced by his smiles and then looked over the same day. It was as if he _knew_ her, knew that she studied harder for his approval, fought valiantly for it, and was _livid_ when he never graced her with it. One day he’d dock half marks from her, leaving her only a percentile short of a perfect score. And still, Liz would feel drawn to him, would study him, would want to simply _understand_ who he was, what made him tick. The next day, his eyes twinkling, he would joke with her, smile at her, frustratingly _confuse_ her. It had never made sense, _he_ had never made sense.

The people she can’t profile are always the most fascinating, always the ones she can’t drag herself away from. The contradictions that are so intricately woven into their souls, knotted and twisted, becoming more tangled the further Liz tries to unravel them.

Reddington is quickly becoming the most complicated of the lot. With every rise and fall of the sun, Liz finds herself profiling, scrutinising him to the point of insanity. Every movement, word, every _action_ he makes, she analyses. Nothing is becoming clearer, the idea she had first had of him abolished, and the deeper she delves the murkier the waters, the thicker and muddier her mind seems to become. As she studies him, learns him, gets to know Red, Raymond Reddington, the Concierge of Crime, the more knotted he becomes, a soul of incongruity. Cradling children against his chest, cradling her in sleep, a man with murder etched into the farrows of his skin, so caring, so _kind_ to those in need. The feelings he inspires within her are just as contradictive as his actions, and Liz is practically paralysed with terror.

The drive is short, silent, and soon Liz is clambering out of the cab after paying, heading up to her apartment, phone clutched tightly in her palm. Clanking up in the elevator to her floor, Liz sighs in relief because the sound, the constant _rattle_ , is _home_. She is back to normality, not off cavorting with criminals or being wined and dined with the city’s finest, back to cheap takeout and crappy films. And when she steps out into the corridor, Tom is standing by her door, plastic bag in hand, dressed in jeans and a jumper, his chin covered in stubble. His eyes are bright when they alight upon her, behind his glasses and he greets her warmly.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting,” she says, opening the door and leading him in, pleased that she, with the aid of Reddington, had tided her humble abode. The curtains are pulled back so light filters into the room, dust particles dancing in the rays.

“That’s alright,” he replies with a bright smile, setting the takeout on her dining room table. Liz would never say no to greasy Chinese for an indulgent breakfast. Without asking he begins to unpack the bag, placing the white boxes on the table and distributing chopsticks. Wandering over she takes a seat and thanks him for the meal as he pushes a container over to her.

They talk while they eat, about work, about Tom’s school, politics, simple and mindless chatter. His attention is riveted on her, and then riveted on using his utensils, something Liz had mastered in her college years, and then back to her. Liz’s attention is scattered, trying to keep track of his conversation, opinions, even while her eyes are drawn to her mobile, waiting for the screen to light up. She knows it is rude, can see that occasionally Tom follows her gaze, but she cannot bring herself to put the phone away. There may only be one chance to catch the next Blacklister, Reddington may need to see her immediately.

After each mouthful of noodle, the soft textures and sweet heat that accompany them, Liz finds that she can’t eat her entire meal, the food sitting heavily in her stomach. It seems that Tom feels similar as he pushes nauseously at the cardboard box, dropping his chopsticks in something like defeat. It makes Liz smile, thinking of Reddington and his insatiable hunger, the extra scoops of icecream he served himself the night before, how he had eyed the last pastry when he’d brought her breakfast, before so politely offering it to Liz. She hadn’t had the heart to accept it. If he were to be sitting across from her at this moment, there would have been more food to begin with and no leftovers for her to hoard in her fridge until they spoiled. He would have polished off every box and most likely scoured her kitchen for dessert.

They sit in front of their half eaten meals, no one moving to clear the table and continue to talk. Tom doesn’t see his family often, only has his brother, Kreg, having lost his parents in an accident. He never specifies what happened, his face contorting in pain, tears pricking at his eyes. His grief is not as fresh as Liz’s, but she stops him with a hand on his arm and a smile, not wanting to cause him discomfort. With a wobbly smile he changes the topic, asks about where she ran off to after they spent the night together.

Dirty faces, trembling hands, protruding ribs, fill her vision. Children only days from death, children scarred both physically and mentally, entirely stripped of their innocence and dignity. The smell wafts around her even now, the _fear_ and _rot_ , the smell of blood and metal. She can see the crimson pooling around the bodies of monsters, their deaths too quick, too _easy_. Reddington throwing himself into the fray, risking his life, and then afterwards glancing at her from the corner of his eye and when he speaks to her, sounding so _proud_. The rattle of gunfire, the _screaming_ of bullets as they tear through flesh, through metal, still rings in her ears.

“Oh,” she says breezily, her smile feeling forced, “I just had to run a few errands.”

Tom’s eyes narrow, only minutely, but enough for Liz to notice. And then he is smiling at her again, rattling off some of the movies he thought they could watch, whether she would prefer a thriller or a comedy, or whether she wants a mixture of both. Liz clears the table as he calls out to her from the couch, _insisting_ that she decide, his tone teasing, happy. She listens half heartedly as she opens her fridge, shoving their half eaten meals inside, deciding that she’ll finish the rest for dinner, as he names several films. Deciding that it doesn’t really matter, she waits for him to finish his list and chooses the second one without thought, making her way over to him as he settles on the couch, the title menu bright on her TV screen.

As soon as she sits down she is tucked into his side, his arm slung around her. He smells like deodorant, masculine and fresh, but conventional, clichéd. It reminds her of the teenage boys she went to school with, the amount they used almost toxic, so heavily applied that as Liz walked past their lockers she could _taste_ it. Lean muscles can be felt under his shirt, shifting with each breath. After their night together, Liz can attest that Tom is an _extremely_ fit man, toned and trim. It is lucky he is teaching primary children, if he had been hired at a high school the young girls would tear him apart. She never contemplates why he is in such good shape.

With a smile she relaxes into him, phone grasped in her right hand, left clasping his thigh. He kisses her on the top of her head and presses play, the movie reflected in the lens of his glasses.

It’s a typical action film; a young handsome man with an excessive range of skills chasing after his damsel in distress, a pretty blonde with bright blue eyes and a shrill voice. There are ticking bombs and firing guns, explosions and fires, car chases and fist fights, and _none_ of it causes Liz’s adrenaline to spike. The villain is laughable, and when he is on screen Liz finds her eyes drawn to the mobile in her hand, waiting for a more charismatic and complex criminal to contact her, to actually _feel_ the rush of gunfire, of battle. Tom seems irked by her actions, giving her occasional nudges when her attention seems to waver and explaining what she has missed in a tight voice. She wonders if he uses the same tone on his students and tries to smother the indignation that coils in her belly. Instead she endeavours to focus, rolls her tongue around her mouth rather than snapping out sarcastic remarks about the shoddy acting and fake redemption arcs. He seems to settle down beside her, thumb stroking up and down her arm.

And then she is shifting again, fidgeting, and she doesn’t miss the huff of exasperation he gives when the blue light of the phone bathes their faces in a ghostly glow. It paints his face in a harsh light, making the angular features, cheekbones and jaw, sharper, almost demonic. The way frustration glints in his eyes as he looks at her causes discomfort to worm down her spine and she quickly shuts off her phone, offers a whispered apology and returns her attention to the screen. Liz swallows back the sick feeling swirling through her, embarrassed that he seems upset with her.

“Who’re you waiting to contact you?” He asks and his voice is purposely light, his eyes never once straying from the screen. There is an undertone of suspicion laced through his words, blanketed with a small smile. And so the lie flows from Liz effortlessly, protecting her, protecting Reddington with surprising ease, realising that this man is just as much as a stranger as the Concierge of Crime, perhaps even more so.

“Aunt June said she’d contact me,” her tone calm, “There are still certain things that need to be put in place regarding Dad’s affairs.”

The tension in the room for a few moments is palpable, enhanced by the screaming, shouting, shattering glass, blaring through the speakers of her television. And then Tom has turned to look at her and is smiling, leaning forwards to kiss her softly, knocking the burner cell on to the floor with a thud as he pulls Liz into his arms. With a huff of laughter Liz turns away, aiming for nonchalance as she says, even as she can taste the diversion on his tongue, on her own,

“We should be paying more attention to the movie.”

His entire body is pressed against her, lean and warm, and then it is gone. Heaving himself up off the sofa, shoulders rigid, Liz just stares as irritation ripples over his features, wondering what has overcome him. His movements are jerky, eyes sharp as he looks down at her. When his lips pull back into a smile, resembling a snarl, wolfish in nature, Liz frowns at him.

“I think I might just go, Liz,” he says briskly, making his way to the door, “Give me a call when you’re free.”

Rooted as she is on the couch all she can do is call his name, but the door clicks closed behind him. Running a hand through her hair Liz stands, begins to pace in agitation, the sickening feeling of confrontation roiling within her. She is greatly unsettled by his actions, the callous change in demeanour, like the rolling rumble of thunderclouds, dark and menacing, leaking over a sunny meadow. His actions, the blatant jealousy, had been unfounded. For all he knew, Liz could have been waiting for a message from Quantico. Her excuse should not have inspired such a reaction. It is unnerving. So as she makes her way to the kitchen, craving a cup of tea, she scoops the burner off the floor, checks it one last time before shoving it into her pocket.

Reddington will call when he is ready and not a moment before, Liz knows this. She is determined not to contact him, even as the silence of her apartment closes in around her. Her fingers are gripped onto a thread of professionalism, what feels like her last strand of sanity, and she is not yet willing to release it. Teeth gritted, Liz takes a sip of her tea, moves to her bedroom to rest, drifting off to sleep before her beverage has even cooled. When she wakes, her fist is frozen shut around the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t really know about this one because it is incredibly difficult for me to write Tom, like it borders on physically painful. So please let me know what you think! I hope you found it enjoyable!


	12. And We Lie Here Longing Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “When I’m going away again,  
> All faces and falsities of new friends,  
> Yeah, there’s fires here to burn, and  
> Timbers left to learn in this young heart.” – Soldiers, Ben Howard

Icy wind whips around the city, snow dusting the concrete paths, the parked vehicles, the pedestrians standing in place too long, waiting for coffee, rugged up warm. The trees are skeletal, their bony fingers reaching up to the murky grey sky, devoid of any signs of life. Silence reigns, the snow seeming to mute all, seeming to calm. Inside the heaters are rumbling with life, turned up so high that after stepping into a store, an office, clothing begins to thaw, hands seemingly burn with the cold. Winter has arrived all at once, washing away autumn with sleet and snow.

It has been weeks.

Weeks since the gala, since waking up beside Raymond Reddington, since Tom stormed out of her apartment. Enough time for the wind to turn bitter and flakes to fall from the sky, to coat Liz’s windowsills in white. There has been no call, no contact. Dembe has not come knocking at her door nor has Reddington broken into her apartment laden with food. Nothing. The occasional buzz of her phone has her heart rate sparking and then stomach dropping, whether it’s the mobile Reddington gave her or her own. It has been weeks and she hasn’t let the burner run out of charge, out of her sight. It has been weeks and she hasn’t dared to contact him either.

Christmas is crawling closer and with it the overwhelming, suffocating grief of Sam’s loss. Liz can see him in the white that blankets the city, in the icy blue of the sky when the clouds finally part after _days_ of grey. He is there in the soft glow in the streetlights that bathe the snow in yellow, orange, when Liz can’t sleep and stares out the window. She is reminded of him even in the foods that grace the isles of shopping centres, stocked in abundance, mountainous amounts, ready for the holiday. He can be heard in the rumbling laughter of the father’s that chase their children through the snow, that act affronted when they’re splattered with a misshapen ice balls. Liz wishes she could take comfort in the fact that she feels that Sam is still around her, still with her, ingrained into the beauty of Christmas, but the ache in her chest throbs with the thought and the tears that prick at her eyes are a stark reminder that he will not be there to ease her pain, her agony. Emptiness has clawed its way back into her apartment, leached into the walls, into the owner herself.

She has made contact with Tom, went out with him to have coffee, because it was _easy_. He was pleasant, happy, acted as if nothing had happened. It had been an escape for Liz, even as the burner cell weighed heavily in her back pocket, there had been the chance to be swept away in the present, not lingering in the past, in the misery Sam had left in his wake. So she didn’t question him on his behaviour, simply smiled and accepted the coffee he had ordered; a bit too bitter. When she’d left the cafe, declining his dinner invitation, the wind had slammed into her as did her sorrow. Liz is quickly discovering that she cannot run from her memories. They are entrenched as deeply as the lessons Sam had taught her, as constant and unwavering as the seasons. She knows that she will not contact Tom again, will leave that short chapter of her life behind.

Her mattress sinks beneath her weary body at night, the body she has slowly been rebuilding, reforging, feeding and training into the warrior she had once been. As the weather lashes at the city, Liz has not braved the cold, not for her runs and not for grocery shopping. She knows that Reddington would be appalled, but when she steps out into the street, makes her way to the shops, the dazzling lights and bright, cheery decorations, _far_ too early into the month for them to be out, steal her appetite, wash it away in waves of anguish. Just as the wind pushes at her, Liz feels as if she has stumbled back to the first weeks of Sam’s death, her wounds torn afresh. There are times when she wonders if Reddington will come for her, seek her out, feed her until she is bursting like the first night they met. His company would be welcome, appreciated, Blacklister or not. Liz is _lonely_ , can feel it etched into her bones.

Occasionally she will make her way to the couch, turn on the TV and stare blankly at the screen, bored, trying to numb her mind, to quiet the tumultuous thoughts that _roar_. She’ll stroke at her scar, not noticing until it’s almost rubbed raw, her nails catching and irritating the tender skin. Now, in times of anxiety, emotional turmoil, she finds that she has taken to gnawing on the inside of her cheek, catching her bottom lip and worrying it between her teeth. She knows where she picked up the trait, tries not to analyse herself too deeply, knowing that self scrutinising will surely drive her insane. Thankfully, her measly budget has kept her attire in line and she hasn’t splurged on expensive and tailored suits for herself, or indulged in the smoothest of scotches. Instead Liz lives in old sweatshirts and yoga pants, chokes down cheap vodka on nights that she just _needs_ to sleep, reminiscent of her college days. She tries not to think, tries to find a semblance of _normality_.

When she drags herself to the bathroom, to seek warmth and comfort from a shower, to wash away the sadness, a hangover, it pains Liz to see her reflection in the mirror, the sickly pallor returning to her skin, the dark bags under her eyes. The holidays, Christmas especially, had always been a time of _cheer_ , a time were her eyes were full of laughter, cheeks aching from smiling, and she’d drink eggnog, not the equivalent in taste to nail polish remover. Now she is mechanic in her actions; waking, showering, checking the burner, waiting, _barely_ eating and then rinse, repeat. Her mind turns as sluggish as her mood, as her limbs, heavy, slow. She tries to focus, takes apart her notes on Reddington, studies him, examines everything she has on the Concierge of Crime to pass the time and finds that what she has is _old_ , that the man seems to evolve and adapt each time she meets him, feeding her morsels of information, enough to keep her interested, hooked, never enough to unravel him, to _understand_.

Liz lies as she is upon her bed, eyes closed and fully clothed, wishing the day away. The burner cell rests on her bedside table, always within reach, the screen blank and black. A sigh gusts out of her like a hurricane in the silence of her room, in the silence of the entire _city_.

The sudden knocks at her door are like two claps of thunder, the stark paint of her bedroom walls like lightning when her eyes snap open. She propels herself from the bed, certain that she knows who is at the door, the hammering in her heart surely audible. And then she is looking through the peephole and there he stands, fedora and all. Rage snakes through her, the ridiculous feeling of abandonment, offended that he didn’t _call_ , hasn’t made contact for _weeks_ and has the audacity to arrive unannounced. She cracks the door open, knows that she’ll be glaring when his green eyes meet hers.

His suit today is a dark grey and his golden skin is a shade darker, tanned, something he would not have achieved in the gloomy, wintery weather of Washington. Hanging over his arm is a parker, navy blue with a fur-lined hood. They stand and assess each other, his eyes raking over her form. Liz knows what she must look like, daggy clothes, tangled hair, worse than the first day he laid eyes on her. She steps aside in silence, watches as he walks so assuredly into her apartment. The confidence he exudes is captivating, the poise in his posture, the steadiness of his gaze, the firm set of his mouth. It is infuriating. He hangs his jacket over the sofa, turning to stare at her now, waiting for her to say something, as if he hadn’t disappeared for near a month.

“Where have you been?” Liz asks and she wishes her voice had been sharper, despises that she sounds meek, as if she missed him. He tilts his head, something in his expression shifting with her tone. Hands in his pockets, he rocks on his heels and she can see the way he rolls his response around his mouth, weighing and assessing, tactician mind whirling.

“Out and about,” is his reply, finally, as he places his fedora on her kitchen bench. Liz offers him a seat with an outstretched arm, feeling awkward in her own home. It is strange to her, that he inspires such feelings after being _invited_ in. Finding him before in her home, when she was only half dressed, a tussled sleepy mess, had been more comfortable, homely. Now after weeks of silence, tension sparks between them, thick electricity that hums and buzzes, tickles over her skin until she feels it _itch_.

“So what brought you back?” she asks next, a steady stream of questions marching along her tongue, unchecked. His eyes seem to gleam at her, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Her gaze had dragged up and down his form when he’d first stepped in, taking in any signs of injury, any sign of why he’d been _gone_. In her assessment of only _him_ , she had missed the folder in his hand, the reason she’d been _obsessing_ over the burner cell, over why he would contact her. He follows her attention, shifts his hold on the documents.

“You, of course, Lizzie,” he responds, voice gravelly, deep. He takes a seat, splays the contents of the folder before him. All business, as Liz had wanted. There is no food in white plastic bags, no lingering looks, just Raymond Reddington steeped in what he does best, like a skilled tradesman. Liz takes a seat beside him, eyes shifting over the papers, trying to make sense of the notes scrawled over the text, some in red and others in black. When she feels his gaze on her and turns to find that his face is grave, the twitch under his left eye giving a singular jump, she asks,

“What it is?”

He seems hesitant to reply, eyes steady on hers. She remembers how _bright_ they had been when he’d woken up, the streaks of gold that were his eyelashes fluttering open. The tight lines that are now etched around his mouth had seemed softer in sleep, gentler. Liz had watched him for long moments that morning, when he had been vulnerable, at peace. And now looking at him in her apartment, she can see that the green fields are shuttered, blank. His lips are pulled into a thin line. It is the face of a man that fights every day to survive, the face of a man that can’t _stop_. There is fear engraved into his features, bleeding through his eyes and Liz knows at that moment that he is going to ask something of her, something that if she refuses, will put an end to his current arrangement.

“This Blacklister, Lizzie,” he begins, gaze flickering down to the documents, “is an organisation, bordering on a cult, that performs the most _horrific_ of crimes. I need you to understand, that if you’re to accept this target, you will be putting yourself in a significant amount of danger. You will need to abide by my and my teams instructions _exactly_.”

Liz thinks back to the warehouse, the screaming, racketing _roar_ of the bullets, how they had been so vulnerable, seemingly unprepared for the onslaught. Reddington had not batted an eyelid, had stepped willingly into that warehouse, hadn’t seemed concerned about _his_ safety at all, but she can still feel the way he shoved her behind him, a human shield. And then her thoughts drift to Ressler, the looming presence of the FBI. It’s a laughable thought, really, that there could be something more dangerous than having the Concierge of Crime sitting in her living room with a surveillance team parked on her street, ready to prosecute and haul her off to jail. It is still a mystery how he manages to get into the building, what diversions he must put in place to distract them. He achieves it all seamlessly, without visible effort, without fear, yet now, something has Reddington shaken, edgy, concerned for _her_.

“I understand,” and her voice is firm, decisive, “but if this is so dangerous, why involve me?”

His response is instantaneous, fierce in loyalty and it takes Liz a moment to comprehend his words. The attachment that is forming between them so stark in the quiet of her apartment, it curls and twists around them, a forbidden vine.

“Because we are a team, Lizzie.”

And then he is moving on, launching into speech, divulging all he knows about their current target. They are an organisation of trophy hunters, and Liz scoffs at the thought of hunting down poachers, at the _irony_ of it all, until Reddington’s brows draw into a frown. Hunting animals isn’t their forte; they specialise in _humans_ , hunt them for sport, toy with them until they grow bored and only _then_ do they take their prize. Liz feels her empty stomach roil, tries to keep her face stoic during the gruesome details Reddington reveals. They beat men, women, torture them, and once their done, their victims only husks of what they once were, they behead them. Fondly, _sickeningly_ , they refer to themselves as The Head Hunters. There are no bounds, no criteria for their victims. Liz cannot find a pattern, and frighteningly so, neither can Reddington. He had discovered information about this heinous gang at the gala. While Liz was dancing, laughing, drinking, Reddington was sourcing, combing through his contacts, assets, looking for something, _anything_ that may pique his interest. The Head Hunters are embryonic, slinking around the darkest areas of the crime underworld, keeping to themselves, funding themselves, showing no motives, just a group of monsters, sadists, hatred like a disease, turning their blood black.

They lapse into silence, Liz processing, analysing, battling with the _fear_ that she will be tracking these men, brutes, _monsters_ , down. She can feel her muscles buzzing with adrenaline, tensing and bunching beneath her battered sweatshirt. Sam would be telling her to turn away, to _run_ , that she’s throwing herself into danger, and he won’t always be there to protect her, but faceless men and women parade through her mind, beaten and bloody, _helpless_. The Head Hunters are unknown, and even if they were the FBI would not be able to track them down, restricted to their conventional means. Undoubtedly more people will die; will be subject to torture and decapitation. She and Reddington can stop them, _end them_. So when she meets his gaze, when he asks, concern threaded through his tone, if she is still willing, if she is _sure_ , Liz has never felt so determined.

“Do you have any idea how to find them?”

He is silent, contemplative, so Liz waits, patience waning, for him to answer. Studying her, he abruptly he stands, offering a hand and leading her to her bedroom. She raises a brow at him as he begins to rifle through her things, making noises of admonishment as he steps over the piles of clothing on the floor, quirking a brow at her unmade bed. He tosses her a pair of jeans and a jumper, and strides out of the room, waiting for her to dress, which she does, hurriedly, confusion warring with fear, his motives seemingly unclear, wondering if he has a lead that they will be following _immediately_ and hasn’t yet told her. Stepping out into her living room he is already shrugging on his coat, grabbing her own and bringing it over to her.

“Where are we going?”

It is with a smile, a knowing glint in his eye as he dons his fedora, that Liz _realises_ the answer, feels both frustration and fondness ripple through her weakened, _exhausted_ body.

He’s hungry.

“You haven’t been eating, Lizzie.”

And he thinks she is underfed.

As if she could possibly _consider_ eating after the horrific papers they had being poring over for the past hour, the stomach churning details. Nonetheless, against her better judgement, she nods her head and follows him out of the door, silent in the clanking elevator.

It is beyond her why he thinks they should take a walk through the deserted, snow covered street, the frosty wind thrashing their clothes, but once they step out of the building he sets off. She pointedly looks at his car, waves at Dembe who is seated within, probably warm and cosy. Reddington keeps walking; his cheeks reddening in the cold, the snow catching on his eyelashes. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a pair of leather gloves, soft and supple. Tugging them on, he flexes his fingers. She follows after him, grumbling under her breath, his hand resting on the small of her back. The warmth is comforting, steady, after the weeks of near isolation Liz has subjected herself to. She finds herself craving it.

The snow crunches beneath her boots, beneath his leather shoes, the icy fragments shattering. It makes such a _satisfying_ sound in the silence, neither of them speaking. Liz turns to study his profile; the silver sideburns, the gentle curve of his chin, his lips smooth, pink and parted. Mist, smoke, wafts between them, around him, so familiar, the only thing missing is the cigar flanked by his fingers. His stride is steady, without falter, even as the path becomes perilously slippery, one foot after the other, legs set apart. He walks like a man of _power_ , head held high; a man who is sure of himself, lethal and deadly. Without Dembe beside him, _near_ him, Liz concludes that he _must_ be concealing a holster, his bulky parker giving him the perfect opportunity. She never thought there would come a time where she decided she wouldn’t leave the apartment without her weapon, but now, in his company, in the danger that _surrounds_ him, she decides that it will become the norm.

“Where are we going?” She asks, finished with waiting for him to elaborate, something she is quickly realising is incredibly _rare_.

“Oh, Dembe and I discovered this _delectable_ cafe nearby,” he gushes happily, turning to smile at her, “my _God_ , Lizzie, the lemon tart! It is to _die_ for! I must admit Dembe is more partial to the blueberry cheesecake, not really one to enjoy citrus. And the music they play! _All_ authentic vinyls! It is such an exquisite place.”

His grin is wide, bright, as he looks at her, eyes so _fond_. The man seemingly has an unwavering passion for _everything_ , for _life_. Slowly, he is introducing her to his world, not only with Blacklisters, the gunfights and bloodshed, but the music he enjoys, the people he has met in his travels, the _food_ he so adores. To Liz it is obvious that these things, that he cherishes so dearly, are what keep him _sane_ , what ground him in the maelstrom that must be his life. Sam had always told her, when she was young, impressionable, that it was important to have things that were just for herself, activities that could calm her, settle her mind when it became to steeped in her homework, and when she was older, her studies and career. Liz had always been so _focussed_ , determined, and it frightened Sam that she would forget to _live_ , to enjoy herself.

“But where is it?” She insists, giving an exasperated huff. His gait has slowed, and with a smirk, he brandishes an arm to point at a building across the road. Soft yellowing light glints within, the chimney leading smoke up into the sky, wafting away into nothing. Liz has never noticed it before, wonders how Reddington found it. With a conceding sigh she crosses the road, not bothering to check for cars. The street is abandoned.

Their arrival is announced with a quiet chime of a bell, and a gust of hot air, the hearth crackling merrily in the back of the room. Absent are the commercial decorations of Christmas, instead the walls are lined with shelves, sagging beneath the books that are stacked upon them. Soft music filters around the room, soothing, peaceful, and Reddington seems to melt, making his way over to the impressive vinyl collection, tucked away in the far corner. His fingers, nimble, flick through the records, eyes scanning over titles, brief smiles flickering over his lips when he spots an artist he enjoys. None of staff approach them; they continue to polish the counter, a mighty slab of wood that spans the entire length of the wall, dark in colour. One of the girls smiles at Liz, full and bright, before her eyes dance over to Reddington and she shakes her head fondly. He must be a regular.

When he stands, knees cracking, he leads her deeper into the cafe, another sitting area, much like the first. Light bulbs hang on ropes from the ceiling, bathing the surroundings in soft yellow. They take a seat, snug in their corner, the few patrons Liz spotted on her way in are far away, consumed in their own thoughts, not giving heed to their presence. Coffee’s are brought to them, unasked for but appreciated all the same. With a kind smile Reddington tips heavily, accepting the menus from the young waitress, who thanks him before disappearing from sight. Liz’s eyes graze over the lunch options, stomach growling. She doesn’t miss the smirk that Reddington throws her way, looking up from his beverage. It grows into a grin when she ignores him.

Predictably, when the waitress returns, Reddington orders a slice of the lemon tart, asking for extra cream. And in a moment of gleeful childishness, to spite him, to causes his brows to crease and his eyes to glint at her, she orders the blueberry cheesecake, in Dembe’s honour. The grin that spreads over her face must be contagious, because he smiles back just as brightly, a soft laugh escaping him. His eyes twinkle at her, the green hiding secrets, mysteries that make it hard for Liz to tear her gaze away. She should have expected that he would retaliate, that her treachery would not go unchecked. So when the waitress comes to them, cakes in hand, Reddington cuts in before she has the chance to place them on the table.

“The blueberry is for me, sweetheart.”

Liz feels her eyes widen, lips parting in shock as the waitress, a small frown gracing her features, places _Liz’s_ dessert before Reddington. He looks triumphant as she glances down at the lemon tart, choking down the bubble of laughter that is creeping up her throat. Glancing back up at him, she tries to school her features into indifference, only to find that he has already taken a spoonful of the cheesecake, is raising it to his parted lips. It disappears with a swipe of his tongue, jade sparkling at her in amusement. She glares in outrage, refusing to try the tart, the silver spoon winking in the light.

“Still not as good as the lemon,” Reddington states, like a connoisseur. Looking across the table at her, feigning innocence, he continues with, “Go on, Lizzie, just _one_ bite.”

The spoon remains where it is; Liz’s hands are steady on the table as she stares across at him. A brow is cocked, a smirk gracing her features. He is challenging her, seems to do so again and again, a constant game of Tug-Of-War. Liz is determined that she will not lose. So she watches him as he takes another bite of the cheesecake, of _her_ cheesecake, and another, the large portion dwindling in size. He coaxes her, cajoles, with soft words and knowing smiles, but Liz sips at her coffee, politely declines and soon enough only crumbs are left on Reddington’s plate and her tart, _his_ tart, remains untouched.

With a suffering sigh, as if Liz is being unreasonable, he reaches across the table, grabs what was supposed to _his_ plate and drags it over. He proceeds to eat the tart as well, making slight noises of appreciation as Liz watches on, disbelieving. Once he is finished, surely full to the point of bursting, Liz stands, ready to go, ignoring the growing hunger gnawing at her insides.

The waitress wanders over, her eyes darting to the two plates piled at Reddington’s end of the table, and asks if they would like the cheque. He catches Liz’s gaze, tongue running along his bottom lip as the corners pull into a small smile. She stares back at him blankly, not giving an inch. With a slight shake of his head, he turns back to the young woman.

“Could we please have another slice of the blueberry cheesecake?” His tone is suffering, as if it is a great hardship, but it’s laced with tease, humour, so Liz grins back at him. She won.

With a nod, the waitress turns and as she steps away, heading behind the counter, Liz calls out, causing Reddington to tilt his head at her, his expression one of confusion. The waitress turns around smiling, seeming to find their banter rather ridiculous.

“Actually, can we make that a lemon tart? Please?”

Turning back to face Reddington, he looks greatly impressed, as if she has surprised him. He concedes with a nod of his head, and watches with barely suppressed glee as Liz, after the waitress has returned once more with her treat, takes her first spoonful. It is delicious, just as Reddington had promised, the perfect ratio of sweet and sour, cut beautifully by the pastry. She remains mute on the subject, which seems to make Reddington smile wider.

“So, The Head Hunters,” she begins, talking around a mouthful, “Do you know where can we find them?”

His expression sobers immediately, smile vanishing, entire persona changing to one of business. Liz feels the shift in the atmosphere, unconsciously straightens her spine in the face of his serious attitude. There will be no room for mistake in this operation. The contingencies Reddington must have ready to put in place surely cater to every possible hitch that may occur in his plan. She feels safe with him, will follow his lead.

“From the intel that I have gathered over the past weeks, it appears that the group inhabit an extremely large and, frankly, _ghastly_ , abandoned mansion on the edge of Bethesda. Dembe is currently working on getting the floor plans, which _should_ make it easier to infiltrate. However, the plans will most likely be outdated and there is no telling the changes they may have made to the building.”

Liz nods her head, preparing herself for more waiting, hoping, _praying_ , that Reddington will remain in contact until he and his team are ready. Obtaining the plans may be difficult, may take Dembe some time, and it will give Liz the opportunity to rake through the notes Reddington has left her, absorb the details, hopefully profile these sadists, giving she and he an edge on them.

His eyes are knowing, kind, as they pierce into hers, as if they can see the fear she is so desperately trying to tamp down. The soft smile that creeps across his face eases the tension in her shoulders.

“You’ll be okay with me, Lizzie.”

With that they stand and Reddington pays the bill, waving Liz away when she reaches for her purse. She thanks the waitress with a small smile and follows him out into the blustering weather. Silence reigns around then, comfortable, settling. Occasionally he’ll make a comment, link something he sees to a short anecdote. Liz smiles, observes the way he speaks with his hands, as if he can’t contain his excitement. He doesn’t seem to notice.

When they idly walk up to the sedan, Reddington heading for the door of her apartment she calls him back, standing by his car. Predictably he tilts his head, smiles at her as he approaches, a question dancing in his eyes.

“You don’t have to walk me up, I’ll be fine. Go home, maybe change into something comfortable?” She says with a smile, laughing when he spreads his arms and looks down at his attire, affronted. In a role reversal, she opens the door for him, and with a nod of his head he bids her farewell, fingers drifting gently across her shoulder as he slides into the vehicle. Dembe moves into the street and they are away, in a flurry of snowflakes. Liz turns on her heel and makes her way to her apartment.

If Reddington had been with her, perhaps they would have noticed that the papers on her dining table had shifted, or the cupboard in her room was left slightly ajar. Liz shuts it, thinking Reddington had left it open in his foray through her wardrobe. She thinks nothing more of it, heading back out into the living room to begin tidying, mentally preparing herself for the assault on The Head Hunters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a bit of a filler chapter, setting up for the next installment. Speaking of which, shit is going to get real wildly fast, just like I like it. So get yourself ready for some angst, because I am mad excited! Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think!


	13. The Fabric Of Your Flesh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “If you could only see, the beast you’ve made of me,  
> I held it in but now it seems you’ve set it running free,  
> Screaming in the dark, I howl when we’re apart,  
> Drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart.” - Howl, Florence & The Machine
> 
> Trigger Warning; Significant amounts of detailed violence, bordering on torture.

It looms above them, no light spilling out of the shattered windows, vines slinking up the crumbling sides, breaking through brick, tearing the house apart, inch by inch. Rotted wood disintegrates away beneath the onslaught of seasons; sun fades the peeling paint, rain beats at the weakening beams. With creaks and groans, the building seems to move, sway, in the wind that whistles through the cracks of stone, eerie, haunting, as if it is _alive_. The great oaks, their canopies pitch black, stand like sentinels around the manor, the light from the moon shrouded by a blanket of clouds, only sparse rays of silver tearing through the confines of grey. Like the gaping maws of a savage beast, a fence ruptures the earth, rusted iron, running along the perimeter of the property, the pointed tips glinting menacingly.

Their breath mists around them, huddled close together, muffling the clank of their weaponry. Merely a part of the scenery, they meld into the shadows with their black attire and dark demeanours. Anticipation crackles around them, passed through fleeting touches; the adjustment of their holsters, the passing of guns, gripping shoulders in comfort. Warmth spreads through them, the promise of battle bubbling, boiling, away in their bloodstreams, clashing with the chill of winter. Eyes, green, blue, grey, brown, stare across at the structure, feet shifting on gravel, assessing points of weakness, potential exits. They have years of experience shared between them, years of brotherhood and trust forged amongst the rattle of gunfire, the thrill of death sizzling around; experts, all of them, at infiltration, at combat, minus one.

Liz shifts uneasily on her feet, feels the weight and heat of Reddington pressing close behind her. His breath, steady and calm, ruffles the wisps of hair that have escaped her ponytail. Dembe is to her right, and Baz, her personal escort through the incursion, to her left. There had been much debate regarding whom she would be partnered with for this particular evening over the past two weeks. Days spent negotiating, cursing stubbornness, never pleading outright, but letting desperation tinge their arguments, their tones. Reddington had wanted to send Dembe, the only man he trusted entirely with Liz’s life, by her side. That had resulted in point blank refusal. She was not willing to take Dembe’s steady presence and protection away from Reddington, certain that he would need it more; the memories of his suicidal ventures during their assault on Marlo Gavon are still stark in her mind.

Late nights of raised voices and scathing remarks, ignored compromises, promises of devotion blanketed in smothering control, frustrated tears hidden behind the swipe of a palm, had all finally led to Baz. He has been by Reddington’s side for _years_ , nearing two decades; a skilled man of combat, with unwavering loyalty and a steady mind. Liz had accepted the offer of his assistance when Reddington grudgingly gave way to her insistence, his mood sour when she had left. He had not walked her to the door, remained brooding in the study of his latest safe house, a bottle of scotch beside him. They hadn’t spoken for a days after that, until he arrived at her apartment with an earpiece and weapons one morning. She didn’t _want_ to know how he got the equipment, just accepts it with a small smile and listens to him ramble as he makes them coffee, back to normal.

She had recognised Baz the moment she laid eyes on him, the kind man that had helped her out the car the day she wandered into that abandoned warehouse to meet the Concierge of Crime. His hair is like a greying mane falling around his shoulders, facial hair rustic and untrimmed, wild. He is a man of few words, his blue eyes smiling at her in greeting. The belt of knives she’d noticed the first time she’d seem him, hang around his waist, the blades accompanied with stun grenades. He is well prepared, hasn’t left her side even for a moment. An obvious leader, though he takes orders from Reddington without hesitation, a mutual respect stretching between them.

They had breached the fence without trouble, Baz by her side throughout, though no obvious dangers lurked. Discovering, after Dembe had secured the plans of the property, that part of the perimeter was blocked off by a towering concrete wall, instead of iron bars, was a relief, collective amongst she, Reddington and Dembe. Scaling them had been easier, combat boots gripping the rough surface, biceps hauling a body weighed down by weapons, ammunition, over to the other side. Liz had watched Reddington land with grace, still as intimidating dressed in black army fatigues rather than his tailored suits, deadly and lethal, not wealthy and refined. He offered her a smile, though his eyes were clouded by tactics, strategies.

And now he’s nudging her forwards, his hand on the small of her back, a searing warmth that grounds her to her surroundings, seemingly stems the fear and terror decaying her veins. They move across what she assumes had once been a luscious green lawn, now barren and brown, puffs of dust spilling from beneath their boots. Dembe is jogging beside her, stealthy and silent, movements as graceful as a panther, eyes scanning the darkened path ahead of them. They split then, Reddington’s team to surge through the front door, taking out any hostiles in living room. Baz’s team, Liz beside him, will rush the back door, guns drawn and ready to fire. She throws one last look back as they round the building, eyes searching until they find him. He’s looking back at her, gives her a nod, and is then stepping on to the porch, disappearing from sight.

She presses her back to the crumbling wall of the mansion, the leaves of the vines that slink towards the sky, rasping against her clothing. Her gun is drawn, clutched in her hands, breath harsh as it rushes out of her. She and the other eight men, none she knows personally, but all deadly employees of Reddington, wait for Baz to crack open the back door, the hinges screeching in the silence. Liz feels herself tense immediately. There is no noise from within, no gunshots from Reddington’s team, no raised voices. So they move in warily, following Baz’s lead, making their way through what appears to have once been a laundry, the machines rusted and the benches covered in rodent faeces.

Stepping out into the living room, the furniture mouldy, rotting away, they find Reddington standing in the centre, amongst the dust. Tapping the barrel of his gun rhythmically against his thigh, he turns to them, eyes serious. His men search the adjacent rooms; their footsteps light as they scale staircases, lurk through passageways, shadows in darkness. The hearths are cold, the cupboards empty. They are alone. She feels her brows draw into a frown, takes a step towards him.

“Raymond,” Dembe’s voice calls out in the silence. Both Liz and he turn to the younger man, make their way over. Baz is a constant presence behind her, the other men mingling by the doors, alert and ready, shifting their weapons, scuffing their shoes, all _waiting_.

The dark is near absolute around them, but when Liz comes to stand beside Dembe, she can see the faint outline of a trap door, fingerprints around the edge disrupting the thick layer of filth. It had been hidden under an old couch, the structure giving way, the cushions smothered with dust, the upholstery chewed by rats. Reddington calls his men over, steps in front of Liz, protecting her from what may be dwelling beneath the perishing floorboards. The tension builds between them all, weapons draw, their breath held, bodies coiled for attack. Liz tries to blink away the darkness, to see clearly, heart pounding against tissue and bone. She can see Reddington’s muscles bunching beneath his clothes, his feet planted firmly on the ground, the barrel of his gun twinkling in the sparse light. He gives a nod to Dembe, remaining silent, and the trap door is wrenched open, a cloud of dirt rising from the darkness.

Splintering wood, the front and back doors thrown open, thundering footsteps, blinding lights, is all Liz registers before Reddington is yanking her down by the back of her head, sending her sprawling to the floor behind him. Bullets rain around her, explode in fragments of metal and wood, and he stands before her, he and his team, returning fire in a matter of seconds. One of Reddington’s men has already fallen, a bullet wedged in his cranium, bleeding out beside her. They have been ambushed, deceived. And now they are trapped, backs pressed against the wall, outnumbered. Liz struggles to stand, drags her gun out from underneath her, until she feels the heavy weight of Baz’s hand pressing her back down. He’s shouting orders, as is Reddington. The men surrounding her are skilled, putting up a considerable effort against the onslaught, knocking down opponent after opponent, and still they pile through the doorways, an army of sadists.

“Get down to the basement! Go! Go!” She hears someone scream and Liz scrambles forwards, thinking of nothing but survival, plunging into the darkness, body battering against the unforgiving stairs. Footsteps rumble behind her, harsh voices and haggard breath, the unexpected stench of bleach burning her lungs. Gunfire is still shattering the room above, wood cracking and shattering. And then the trap door is slammed shut, Dembe fumbling for the latch, gun slung around his shoulder. For a few moments, the only sound is the racket and rage from above, shouting and swearing, _fury_. Liz feels herself trembling, standing well back from the men still piled on the staircase, thankfully Reddington among them; she strains her eyes in the darkness to make out his figure. He rumbles her name, his voice carrying through the gloom, imbued with apprehension.

And then blinding white causes them all to hiss, blink rapidly, industrial lights swinging from the ceiling bursting to life. They lift their weapons, their first instinct. All has fallen silent above, but on the staircase the men swear and groan in frustration, some pawing at their eyes in annoyance. At the glare, bright and unforgiving, Liz rubs roughly at her own, managing to focus, squinting at her surroundings. A hallway runs ahead of her, tiled from floor to ceiling, polished clean. There are no doors, no exits, just what seems to be a junction at the end, a way right and a way left. She begins to stroll down it, footsteps quiet, separating from the group.

“What is this?” She asks, voice echoing down the corridor, bouncing off the tiles.

Reddington makes his way down the stairs, follows her gaze, his back to her. He is still spotless, still so neatly arranged, black fatigues just as becoming as a suit. His pistol is gripped loosely in his hand, basically balancing on the tips of his fingers. The only sign that he has exerted himself is the way his lungs heave, battling for oxygen to fuel his adrenaline filled body. With his head cocked to the side, he remains silent, contemplating. He replies as he turns, his voice deep, _dark_ and menacing.

“They’re sadists, Lizzie. This is a game.”

She can see the way Reddington’s eyes widen in horror, terror, when he looks upon her, looks _past_ her. He is already lifting his weapon, as Baz fights his way through the other men, stumbling down the staircase, lunging through the empty space to get to her. She can hear Dembe shouting, moving for Reddington as the man in questions starts forwards. There is noise from behind, but Liz cannot force herself to move, rooted to the spot, eyes glued to Reddington’s, terrified as he struggles to get to her, the vastness of the corridor stretching between them. But the grenade lands with a flash of light, sends Liz airborne, landing with a sickening crunch, head colliding with cold, unforgiving ceramic tiles. Shrapnel flies past her face, catches and tears at her flesh. Her ears ring, vision blurs, lungs gasp for air. The pounding of her heart is the loudest of all, audible over the shouting voices, the footsteps closing in around her, her harsh, rasping coughs.

Hands grab at her, merciless claws digging into her skin, bruising and dragging her along the ground. She tries to gather her senses, lifts her head to look to where Reddington had been standing. The roof has caved in, concrete, wood, furniture separating them, but she can hear his voice, desperate, calling her name, screaming orders.

Her eyes, bleary, are drawn to the men around her, the men who are zip-tying her wrists and ankles together, looking at her like she is a prize, a _trophy_. They are all appear so _normal_ , men she could pass on the street, ordinary, _harmless_. Casual clothes that are adorned with knives, guns, ropes tied to their belts, the occasional stun grenade. Not typical hunters, but thrilled by the chase all the same, more violent, drastic. None of them look at her like she is human, no sympathy bleeding through their eyes, only detachment, and in some cases, causing Liz to shrink from them, dread shivering through her, _glee_. Hauling her up on their shoulders, turning their backs on the rubble, they cart her off down the corridor, her body jostled carelessly.

“We’ll take her to the holding facility, the rest of you hunt the others,” One of them orders, his voice croaky, demanding. The rest scatter to obey, half of them splitting up, jogging ahead, weapons drawn. She wonders how extensive the basement is, how far the corridors twist and weave through the earth, whether there is a chance for escape. She is facing the floor, can only see boots and tiles, and it finally dawns on her as to why all the surfaces are polished, the smell of bleach so pungent in the air. Squeezing her eyes shut, tears threatening to spill, she swallows back the vomit that threatens to rise, imagining the blood and gore that must be frequently splattered up the walls.

They turn down another corridor, the men talking quietly around her, paying no attention to their prisoner. There is no sound of gunfire, of combat; Reddington and his men have not yet been found. She feels blood trickle down the back of her head, the splinters of wood and tile embedded in her flesh. Reddington would not have survived the explosion unscathed; Liz imagines cuts and grazes marring his face, blood oozing down his features. She draws comfort knowing that she heard his voice, as strangled and raw as it had sounded, and muffled by the buzz in her ears. He is alive, conscious.

She wonders, with a panic that chokes her heart, threatens to stop it from beating before the monsters around her get their chance, whether he will come from her. Wonders if he will tuck tail and flee, that all the promises he had given her, the sincerity that had turned his eyes molten, unwavering, had been the skills of a sociopath, that he’d leave, desert her to the whims and wants of sadists.

The group enter a room. It is dark, dreary, compared to the sterile confinements of the corridors. The concrete isn’t polished, but moist, gravelly. Liz can smell the damp surrounding them, as she is dropped, unceremoniously, onto the floor. Her clothes catch on the rough surface. She feels grazes smear into her skin as she lands, tear at her palms, smalls stones imbedded in her flesh. There is no light within; the only illumination spilling in from the hallway. On the walls are chains, and to the back, a mattress, stained and sagging. Liz scrambles away, scrambles for the light behind her, even as she collides with the solid legs of her captives, hears them laugh and jeer at her fear. Someone seizes her hair, wrenches her head back to expose her throat. She struggles against them, twists and writhes in their grip. A bucket of water, icy, rancid, douses her, causes her to choke and splutter, her body shivering to restore heat immediately, clothes clinging to her figure like a second skin. They throw her forward, a well placed kick to the ribs causing her to curl in agony.

“She’s _mine_ ,” she hears one of the men bark, murmurs of agreement following the announcement. And then their footsteps are retreating, the creak and groan of a door closing behind them. Liz stills, shifts her body, with difficulty, to face the exit. The only sound remaining is the steady breathing of her captor, his outline visible from the light crawling between the gaps in the door. A small whimper escapes her as he takes a step forward. He is smiling down at her, as if trying to be placating, taking small steps as if she is a frightened animal. Blue eyes peer from his handsome face, a head full of thick black hair, shaggy and wild. His weapons clatter together with each step; knives polished and sharp.

When her back meets cool stone, unyielding, she realises her mistake. He leisurely strolls forward, snatching at her wrist even as she tries to wrench it away. The click of the shackle feels as if it constricts her heart, the heavy metal of the chain dragging at her hands. She savagely kicks out, feels her foot meet his shin, grimly smiles up at him as he swears. There is no escape when he recovers, his hand launching out and grasping at her throat, hauling her into the air with an effortless strength. Her back scrapes against the wall, hands scrambling against the unforgiving, steadfast grip, sinking her nails, clawing at his flesh. Water drips from her clothes, softly splattering on the ground, during the struggle. Her lungs are screaming, _burning_ , eyes bulging and pleading before darkness creeps around the edges, she can’t swallow, scream, she can’t _breathe_. He is snarling at her, teeth gritted, face only inches from hers. And then he has released her, lets her sag to the floor, choking and gagging, tears tracking down the dust and dirt on her face. Hands splayed before her, knees digging into the cold floor, she fights to remain conscious, feels the bruises already forming around the tender base of her neck, the salvia hanging from her lips as she heaves and gasps. Sweat drips from her face, runs down her temples, off her chin, off her nose.

“You look a bit hot, darling,” the man drawls, looming above her, “Those clothes sure look warm.”

He rolls her with another kick to the ribs, Liz is sure she hears one of them give way, a splintering _crack_ , feels the instantaneous throb, the stabbing pain. Helpless on her back, hands jerked above her head, the chain tight, he stands well away from her legs, unsheathes one of his blades, smiles down at her as if doing her a courtesy. Positioning himself at her side, crouching low and steady on his feet, Liz thrashes away from him, whimpers and cries as the blade snags on her clothing. A strong hand holds her down, presses into her shoulder, knuckles crushing muscle. He drags the knife up her clothes, from navel to the hollow at her throat, slow, as if taking his time to seduce. Material parts, wool and cotton giving away with hitching tears, until Liz is left exposed beneath him with an angry red line marking her skin where the knife had delved too deep. Blood beads around the wound, and with grubby fingers he pulls at the flesh, tears it further apart, exposes it to the cool air, softly blows over it. Liz flinches at the sensation, the sharp sting, traps the gasp of pain behind her teeth. He just laughs at her, mocking, knife held loosely in his hand, as if deciding the best way to skin her.

Liz thinks back to her training at Quantico, about how to survive hostage situations, to make her captor see her as _human_. To be relatable, to try and establish a connection, _anything_ that may cause hesitation. Looking up at the man towering above her, a pleased smirk etched into his features, without a single _shred_ of remorse, Liz knows that her tactics, the lessons and lectures she had sat through, taken notes on, would be futile. He twirls the blade between his fingers, tongue darting out to run along his lips as his eyes graze up and down her body. Liz does not want to succumb to defeat; will continue to fight until they dislodge her head from her shoulders. So she grits her teeth through the pain, snarls up at him.

“You’re not getting out of here alive,” she snaps, even as he grabs at her ankles, latches another shackle over them, restricting any movement. Liz struggles against them anyway, grunting in pain as the metal bites at her flesh, her position tugging at her wounded ribs. It had been sudden, she hadn’t expected it, and he knows that, laughing at her, an eyebrow arched.

“I think I am, darling,” he replies cockily, pacing up and down the room now, “You won’t be. And don’t worry, we’ll get to that, but first we need answers.”

When he turns to her, eyes violent, crazed, filled with lust for blood, she knows what he is going to ask, almost _laughs_ at the how predictable it is, feels as if she is in one of the shitty films Tom is always asking to watch. They want to know who found them; they want to know who is right now roaming their sick maze, armed and dangerous, a _threat_. She smiles at him, shakes her head, fierce, _loyal_. With a shrug of his shoulders, he steps forwards, buries the tip of his blade into the soft skin of her abdomen and drags, slicing through tissue. Liz bites back her scream, screws her eyes shut as she feels the hot blood pulse and bathe her stomach. The wound is deep, not life threatening, but painful, _excruciating_. A gasping sob escapes her, until she bites down on her tongue, feeling blood swelling beneath that as well.

“Who attacked this facility?” He growls, wiping his knife on his clothing, smearing Liz’s blood over the blue of his shirt. She shakes her head desperately, feels her hair stick to the tears smeared across her face, arching her back as his hands graze along her stomach, press into the tender flesh menacingly until Liz releases a yelp of pain. “I can take you a part piece by piece, if I have to.”

There is the far off rumble of gunfire, muted and muffled voices, shouts and screams of pain. Their eyes meet, and then Liz’s captor begins moving with urgency, tearing at the remains of her clothing, wielding his knife with precision as he stares up at her, balanced on the tips of his toes by her hips. He asks her again, pressing the point of the blade into her skin, just hard enough that red blossoms around the metal. Liz looks away from him in reply, stares up at the ceiling as the barrage of bullets draws closer. When the blade sinks into her, twisting, she howls in agony, clawing at the ground. She feels as it passes through not only flesh and tissue, but muscle and fat, carving through meat. His movements are precise, as if he is taking great care not to damage the meat, as if he is _filleting_ her.

She doesn’t look down, is sure that she will soon pass out from the pain. Her nerve endings scream as they’re torn apart, severed so cruelly. And through it all she can hear the exchange of bullets without, drawing closer and closer.

She can feel the blood seeping beneath her, smearing against her back, providing a sickening warmth to her body, still soaked and freezing. And with one last burst of energy, Liz wrenches herself away, screaming herself hoarse as the blade catches and snags on its way out. She hears him curse, sees him stand out of the corner of her eye, hands stained with her blood, droplets dangling from his fingertips. He seems exasperated, lunges forwards to finish what he had started, and Liz keeps screaming, sure that her throat will become raw, that soon she will run out of breath. Stifling her howling and yelling, the man clamps a hand over her mouth. She can taste the tang of metal, iron, and so she bites down, through the tough leathery skin, feels fresh blood pool in her mouth, keeps biting even as he pulls away.

The gunfire is in their corridor now, metres from the door, bullets lodging in the tiles, sinking into skin. She can hear voices, can’t discern who they are, whether Reddington is among them. She tries to scramble upright, jerking and twisting at her chains. The man is advancing towards her, furious, murderous, obscenities spewing from his mouth, knife clutched tightly in his fist. He gives her one last final kick, savage, lifts his hands high above his head, ready to deliver the final blow. Liz struggles, tries to tilt her body away from the inevitable blade, as it plunges down towards her.

The door cracking against stone, thrown so forcefully it trembles on its hinges, halts Liz’s demise. Her captor turns, doesn’t even make it the entire way around before metal shreds through the tender flesh of his calf. He collapses beside her in a spray of blood, screaming in agony. The crimson around them spreads as he tries to drag himself to safety, smearing over his clothes, over the ground.

Reddington’s silhouette is framed by the doorway, inhuman, a demon, looming above them both; a shadow of death and destruction, with a blade in one hand and a pistol in the other. He’d come for her; bathed in blood, slaughtering and decimating, tearing through bodies, walking through the rain of bullets, the shudder of explosions. He strides forwards, the stench of blood enveloping them all, but Reddington especially. His usual fragrance of lemongrass, of the sea, has been drowned in the metallic stench of the red that is sprayed over his clothes, his face, soaked and staining his hands. With a strength she didn’t realised he possessed he hauls the other man from the ground, ignoring the screams of agony, of terror, spins the weapon in his hand and plunges it into his victims chest, burying the blade hilt deep. With a jerk, he wrenches his knife from the body, turning away from it before it has sagged to the floor.

Animalistic, _feral_ , is his expression when he turns to face her, _chilling_. She shrinks from him, can’t help herself, the anger, _fury_ , that is emanating from him, seeping and sizzling into the air around them, it is terrifying. His eyes are liquid, fire, _blazing_ , lips parted as he breathes heavily; the beast within having been _unleashed_. When he crouches, the knife and gun in his hand clattering to the floor and he reaches out for her, only snatching his hand back when he realises the filth that coats it, Liz has already leaned towards him.

Baz and Dembe burst through the door, stopping dead at the sight before them. Their weapons are drawn, even as the last shot is taken in the corridor, silence reigning over the horror of their confines. Liz can feel herself becoming faint, the blood loss too much, the adrenaline ebbing away as she stares at Reddington, her body trembling. His voice is hoarse, _broken_ , when he speaks, and Liz feels tears prick at her eyes.

“ _Lizzie_.”

She breathes his name in reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope I did this chapter justice. Let me know what you think! Thank you for all your support. Also, vintage has started where I live so instead of writing I’ll be out picking grapes at ungodly hours of the morning, so updates may be a bit slow for the next month or two. My apologies for that, but it sure gives me something to think about while I’m out working!


	14. I Hunt For You With Bloody Feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Now there’s no holding back, I’m making to attack,  
> My blood is singing with your voice, I want to pour it out,  
> The saints can’t help me now, the ropes have been unbound  
> I hunt for you with bloody feet across the hallow’d ground.” – Howl, Florence & The Machine
> 
> Trigger Warning; Significant amounts of detailed violence and gore. (Otherwise known as Red losing his shit and real fucked up Blacklisters.)

The dust coats them, billows and wafts in the darkness. Metal falls from the ceiling, clattering on the ceramic floor, debris and shrapnel. It’s choking and thick, curling and wisping around him like smoke, weaving down his throat into his lungs, as it did a lifetime ago, the hiss and crackle of fire, now a burning memory. The dust seems as impenetrable as the wall of detritus, the carnage of the ceiling and walls, that now towers before them. Raised voices are heard from the other side, muffled and all but drowned out by the buzz and ringing in his ears. Gasping for breath, he braces himself on his forearms, lungs heaving, feeling the keen sting of the grazes and cuts that now grace his body, the slow trickle of blood, oozing above his eyebrow.

He looks to the massacre of ceramic tiles, shards of smooth white and the brittle grey underside. Splintered wood, jagged spears like teeth, are shrouded in darkness. It is a hulking immovable beast in the dimness of the corridor, this wall of wreckage. The low hanging lights swing precariously further down the hallway, splashing light over the desolation, over the men wiping grit from their eyes, coughing into the crooks of their arms. Lizzie is not among them; a glaring absence.

He’d been _too far away_.

He’d been too far away to reach her before the explosion, before the roof caved in. He’d been thrown too far back to recover fast enough. He’d been _too slow_ , throwing himself down the corridor to grab her. He was close enough to see her though, to see her eyes wild with terror. He was close enough to see her lips part as she went to call his name. Close enough to see her unmoving, as if rooted to the floor with the weight of her panic.

And now they are separated; she in the clutches of madmen, possibly unconscious, vulnerable to the heinous acts they perform, and he, battered and bruised, trapped in a maze made by sadists, struggling to raise his weary body from the floor.

The first word to pass his chapped, split, lips is her name, initially in a cough and then louder, stronger. He’s calling for her as his men reach him, Dembe’s strong hands grasping at his arms and pulling him to his feet. Baz is beside him; face drawn, pale, expression one of a man who has failed, a man suffused with guilt. The rest of the men remaining on the stairs have escaped serious injury, only marked by the occasional cuts and grazes. Either way, it does not faze them; they stand ready, weapons drawn, eyes attentive as Reddington breathes, thinks, _strategizes_. He can hear the Blacklisters through the rubble; can hear the way they jeer and laugh, the sound that hunters make after a successful pursuit, carrying their prey. Shifting his weapon, he looks at his men, begins making orders. They will take over this facility, they will _storm it_ , until they retrieve Lizzie, their _only_ priority.

Hastening to obey, without any real idea of where they are going, they make their way down the corridor, fury burning in Reddington’s wake. Their combat boots are loud on the tiles, their weapons shifting as they move. The hallway stretches on, seeming to twist and wind beneath the earth endlessly, a thousand crevices and empty rooms to hide Lizzie within. A choking fear clambers up his throat, still raw from the dust that wafts around them, not unlike drowning. His lungs feel too _tight_ , darkness clouding his vision, a constant mantra streaming through his consciousness. _Lizzie_. He’d felt similar in Marrakesh, felt the unholy weight of the world upon his chest, the _panic_ that accompanied it, the helplessness. She’d been his only thought in those moments, even as he desperately tried to recall his Navy training, desperately tried to _survive_ , he had seen only her, wreathed in flames, blue eyes the colour of the ocean that tugged at his limbs, dragged him down into the black abyss. The young girl he’d _saved_ , the _good_ in his world.

When his limp body had washed ashore, the hands of a local fisherman forcing the water from his lungs, cracking ribs in the process, breathing _life_ back into him, Red coughed and spluttered, felt the fluid from within leak out of his nose and mouth. The sun had sat high above him, he could see the rays of light through the thin flesh of his eyelids, could feel as it crept over his chilled skin, as his waterlogged body arched and gravitated to the soft warmth it provided. And through it all, as the grains of sand stuck to his soaking clothes, as his saviour spoke to him frantically in a foreign tongue, her name coursed through his mind as relentless as the tide.

He remembers the fisherman running off, to get help, leaving him to bake beneath the sun, wishing fruitlessly for fresh water for what felt like _hours_ on end, occasionally being racked by such severe coughing fits that he’d wished he’d simply died. And then Baz stood above him, face haggard, but smiling. He’d been searching the nearby wharfs, having refused to let Kate Kaplan scour for his corpse, as she had insisted. They’d put contingencies in place, following Red’s orders; had assumed the worst when his body all but disappeared in the murky depths of the night. It wasn’t until after they had taken him to a local hospital, where he ended up being monitored for _days_ , that they informed him that Kate had contacted Sam, the immediate course of action that was to take place after his death.

He had asked for a phone immediately.

Thinking back now, to that brief conversation with Sam, his rough voice and quiet chuckles, Red finds that his chest _aches_. The grief in his dear old friend’s voice when he’d answered the phone, the monotone in a man normally so jovial and _wild_ , it made Red practically quake with guilt. And then when Reddington had _spoken_ delivered the news, in a disbelieving tone, wondering how Sam could have _given up_ on him so easily, the other man had _laughed_ , a laughter choked with tears, with relief, as the sorrow and grief ebbed away. In the background there was noise, the sound of a typical morning, the pop of a toaster, the whistle of a kettle, the clatter of plates. Sam didn’t call him by his name, didn’t mumble _Ray_ into the receiver, just chatted with, what Red noticed as, a forced nonchalant tone. And that was when he realised that Lizzie was near, making herself breakfast, unaware of the international criminal on the other end of the line. A typical teenage girl with a burn scar blistered into her skin.

He thought about the contingencies that were to be put in place if he was to meet a fatal end sooner than expected. The money that would be transferred into Sam accounts, the security details that would follow Lizzie relentlessly until every threat had passed, the constant protection for the _both_ of them. Reddington’s world would have never reached them, would have never disrupted Lizzie’s life, her education, while Sam was alive to watch over her, to guide her away from her more _curious_ tendencies.

Having the benefit of hindsight, the _curse_ of not being able to see _ahead_ with clarity, but behind with pristine vision, he prowls down the sterile hallways, searching and _searching_ , realising that the _mere_ thought of Sam dying _before_ him had been _unfeasible_. He’d sworn, _vowed_ , from the day he’d left Lizzie on Sam’s doorstep, the night of the fire, that he would let _nothing_ happen to her for as long as he roamed the planet, the monster that belonged to _her_ and her alone. There had been the comfort that Sam was with her, lethal and protective, her _guard dog_ , loyal and savage when needs be. He was supposed to _always_ be there. And now, with Sam gone, Lizzie had been left vulnerable and in Reddington’s care, and with it, all the danger and threat that came with him. Not a young girl, but a woman, beautiful and _wild_ , unpredictable, that graces him with smiles and then burning fury. A woman with a soft supple body that can turn lean and hard, who has hair that smells of apples and with skin as soft of silk, the colour of milk.

And then he imagines it splattered and stained with blood, beaten and bruised.

With gritted teeth he growls deep in his throat, tightens his grip on his weapon, something predatory, _feral_ , unravels in his chest, snakes through his limbs. The burn that unfurled in his ribcage the morning he woke with her ear pressed to his heartbeat and lips a breath from his jaw. A need to protect, distinctly _male_ and driven by testosterone, seeped through his awareness, his blood, ever since the moment he saw her in that warehouse, not a little girl lost in a big wide world, but _Lizzie_ , throwing herself into danger and darkness, _willingly_. The men around him sense it, eye each other warily. When Reddington is furious, bodies trail in his wake, shot, stabbed, beaten, all _dead_ , none spared. The only one to look directly at him is Dembe, his russet eyes intense, watching the fury emanating from his _brother_ , knowing that when Raymond Reddington is furious, Raymond Reddington is _fearful_.

They stalk down the halls, as a group, they do not split and they do not falter. Crossing no one, they continue on, splintering through doors to reveal empty chambers, to reveal individuals merely husks of thin skin and brittle bones, eyes dead and minds broken. Reddington leaves three men behind, to deal with the victims, those that are still alive, not having succumbed to darkness. The smell is rancid, not enough bleach in the world can chase away the distinct _stench_ of death, of rot and _fear_. It is enough to make the eyes of lesser men water, men who are not the incarnate of demise, of _ruin_.

When they burst through a particularly solid door, the usual waft of shit and blood and decay absent, Reddington steps in first, blindly fumbles by the doorway for a light switch. The men behind him watch on with grave eyes, the horror before them difficult to stomach, as white light bathes the scene before them. As a unit they step into the room, spotlessly cleaned, well maintained, _cared for_. The _trophy_ room. Some men lower their weapons in disgust, sickened.

Shelves upon shelves line the concrete walls, metal and unyielding, to hold the weight of the jars resting on them. Dead eyes stare back at them, hair haloed in the liquid it resides in. Skin a sickly pallor, yellow and white awash in blaring light. Men and women, heads hewn from their shoulders, bodies long ago discarded, never finding rest, still in the hands of their captors, of the Head Hunters, even after death. Swallowing Reddington surveys the scene, notices the plaques, polished until they shine golden, beneath each jar. The name of the victim is inscribed in each, the _weight_ of their head beside it. There are at least fifty victims and other empty jars to be ready to be filled, blank plates of gold below them.

There are women with flowing locks of brown, dull blue eyes that were once the colour of the ocean, once tumultuous and wild. There are women with milky skin that is now bluish, tight ad tacky. In them all, Reddington sees Lizzie, feels a tremor run through his fingers, feels Dembe’s steady gaze on his back. He turns away from the gore, battles down the growing, the _gnawing_ , fear that burns like acid, and faces the door. His men follow suit, immediately raising their weapons when they find a shadow just across the threshold.

Weapons hang by his belt, useless now that all manners of guns are trained on him, glocks and pistols, semi-automatics, shotguns. His eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape as Reddington strides forward, seemingly triggering a will to _survive_ , to preserve his life like the floating heads in the jars before him. He turns to run, but Reddington is quicker on the draw, sends a bullet tearing through the man’s kneecap, sees the blood and brittle bone burst through the skin, hears the agonised scream as his prey tumbles to the floor, clutching at his wound, blood pooling over his hands. His eyes are clenched closed, teeth gritted in distress as Reddington hauls him to his unsteady feet. Their faces are inches apart and Red is smiling at him, seems entirely calm, almost like a doting uncle as he pats the younger man on the shoulder.

“Now, I’m going to need you to _focus_ ,” he rumbles deeply, twisting the other’s jaw gently so that their eyes meet. There are unshed tears in the hazel iris’s that stare back at him, bright with panic. Red is given no response, so he reaches down, presses his thumb into the devastation of the bullet, slamming his now bloody palm over his victim’s mouth as he _howls_ in pain. He backs him against the wall, the cold ceramic, scarlet splattering on the tiles. They are all once more in the hallway.

“Are you _listening_?” Red growls, _snarls_. He is given a nod in reply, a sobbed _yes_ , muffled by his palm. Tilting his head so that his lips brush against the shell of the younger man’s ear, whispering as if to a lover, he says, “You’re going to lead me to the woman your fellow hunters seized, or I am going to blast out your remaining kneecap and then have my men disembowel you for the longest of _hours_. Understood?”

He steps away abruptly, watches as the man stumbles to catch himself, useless knee buckling beneath him to send him sprawling, smearing red over white. Two of Reddington’s men lunge forward, roughly drag him upright, guns digging into his ribcage. When Reddington meets the young man’s eyes, with a smile and a brandished arm, he politely asks him to lead the way. And they start down the corridor, at their regular pace, dragging their injured prize behind them.

It doesn’t take them long to hear the distinct clank of weaponry, echoing off the tiles, bouncing down the hallway. It doesn’t take long for bullets to rain down upon them and it sure as _Hell_ doesn’t take long for them to return fire. There is the _scream_ , the _shriek_ , of gunfire around them, and no cover to take. Tiles chip and spray fragments through the air, blood pools over the floor as men fall, some dead and some injured. There is shouting and yelling, orders given, _demanded_ , as Reddington’s men, as _Reddington_ , sinks enemy after enemy, advancing up the hallway. Dembe and Baz flank him, unstoppable and with deadly aim, seemingly as invincible as their employer, their _friend_. They release round after round, dodge and weave, until their close enough that in the end bullets are of no use at all and it becomes physical combat, the wielding of polished steel.

Red knows how to box, how to _spar_ and _fight_ , excelled at it during his time at the Navy, excelled further when he delved into the depths of the underworld. He can be found in the hotels he frequents, when the gym is empty, during the early hours of the morning, coated in sweat, hands taped and a boxing bag swaying on its chain, the distinctive groan of metal following each swing. Dembe comes to retrieve him after _hours_ , when his arms are aching and tape occasionally stained with blood. Subtly his brother checks that no knuckles have been broken, that all digits are straight and then he takes Red back upstairs, to shower, to rest.

So, when some savage beast of a man lurches towards him, blade in hand, evading him is easy, landing a punch that cracks ribs and a knee that shatters the delicate bones of the nose is _simple_. Snatching the blade from his hand as he teeters and sinks to the floor like a hacked tree is child’s play. Sinking that same knife into the back of his fallen opponent’s neck is the _obvious_ thing to do. And then he is on to his next target, leaving the lifeless body behind, to hack and slaughter his way through their measly ranks.

It’s in a haze that he guts and slices and feels the slickness of blood slide over his hands, the splatter of it coating his cheeks, his lips, spraying over his clothes, the starched collar of his dress shirt. Raymond Reddington rarely finds himself in the fray, rarely finds the _need_ to be in the thickness of uncontrolled violence, but on the occasion that he is the beast within, the _monster_ , revels in the destruction. It mewls as his victims’ tremor, _purrs_ when they effortlessly fall to his hands. There is no thought but survival, no thought of anything but achieving his goal, obtaining his _prize_. _Lizzie_.

He has saved her before, the scars on his back, rippled and scorched skin, warped by heat, are a testament. The slaughtering was the same, the battle and combat he found himself in before the flames slithered and roared around him, the smoke wafting and rising was familiar. Except he hadn’t been slaughtering to find her, to _save her_ , hadn’t known she was _still there_ until he could hear her screaming, found her father’s corpse, blossoming with red, a smoking gun beside it. He remembers Katerina all but forgetting about retrieving the Fulcrum when she saw her partner, minutes dead. She threw her body over him, tears streaming down her delicate features. Something in her mind had _snapped_ , she’d turned delirious, fearsome, threw off Raymond as he reached for her and tried to drag her away, even as tendrils of smoke snaked up the stairway. They were not supposed to die that night, they went there to retrieve Masha, retrieve the Fulcrum, before her father got to it, before he had leverage over them both. But plans change and Reddington left her to burn, left her to cry over the man that caused her so much pain, the man that stole her daughter.

It had spread quickly, quicker than he had expected, anticipated, as he rushed down the hallways, burst into rooms, having sent his men away when they tried to restrain him, drag him away. He was seeking a small girl with a white rabbit, the spitting image of her mother, skin unblemished by flames and no knowledge of infamous criminals, just _another_ ruined Christmas and the small hands of an _innocent_ killer. The flames had reached Katerina by the time Reddington found Masha, found _Lizzie_ , huddled in a closet, rabbit clutched to her chest, face already covered in ash.

She had grown up with him nearby, bringing her ice-creams and treats whenever he came to visit, to deal with business with her mother; a Russian spy and a young Navy officer, wading into the dark and mysterious secrets of clandestine governments and shady characters. So, little Masha came with him easily, was pliant, her small hand in his as he tugged her out of the confines of her wardrobe into the smoke filled air. Scooping her into his arms, they braved the flames, the red and orange and yellow that licked at the walls and crackled around them. He’d turned her head into his chest when he stepped over her father’s body, Katerina having fled the flames, fled in weakness and shame, valuing the life of a man destined to cause her pain over the life of her dear child.

The rest was a blur of pain and screams, of burning _heat_ and then the soft embrace of _snow_. Desperate drives through the blackness of night, Masha nestled on the passenger seat, tears dripping off her filthy, soft cheeks. Blood and fluid oozed down the _ruin_ of his back, sticking to the soft fabric of his shirt, the soft leather of the car. They drove for hours, even as Red’s eyes sagged, even when he pulled over to vomit, they drove until they were standing at a front door and when it opened, kind blue eyes looked back at them.

Now, there is no fire, no smoke, just _blood_ , just paling bodies and her name a prayer, as he slays and fights, red dripping from his fingertips, crimson footprints as he advances, draws closer. Their hostage is still shouting directions, until one of his own reaches him, slits his throat for his treachery. Baz dispatches that man easily, saves Reddington the trouble of having to do so. He spins and turns, watches as their opponents falter through the onslaught, begin to retreat.

And that’s when he hears it.

 _Hears her_.

Screams pierce the air, agonised _screams_ that could be only _her_. He is thrown into a frenzy, draws his weapon once more, begins firing into the crowd, shot after shot, bodies dropping to the floor, sliding down walls, sagging as if in slow motion. His men sense his urgency, up their own game, become manic as they shoot and slice, can hear the screams, can see it greatly affects their employer. And as they draw closer, Lizzie grows louder, more frantic, more _pained_.

Reddington’s teeth are clenched so tightly that he thinks they may shatter. His eyes are so dark he looks demonic. He can see the door ahead, solid, cannot see within. Spurring himself forward he makes for the room, feeling Dembe’s solid presence behind him, trusting his men to cover him, gun clutched in his hand. And then he is there, can hear her so clearly, so anguished, and with a solid kick the hinges scream and the wood shatters as it smacks into the concrete, light spilling in on the scene, revealing the red, the _blood_.

And it takes Raymond back to another time when he was cold and stumbling, admonishing himself for his idiocy, a Christmas Eve. Presents abandoned in a car and a bowl of oyster stew awaiting him at home.

He’d run out of gas.

Moisture seeped up the legs of his trousers and his shoes were sodden, as he stepped up onto his front porch, the light left on. The warm glow from inside had spilled through the windows and on to the untouched white, the icy crystals twinkling like stars. It was quiet within, no sound of the piano, only the muted crackle of the fire. The smoke from the chimney wafted up into the sky, snakes of grey twisting and reaching into the heavens. Everything was so _still_ , so _silent_. He’d been a simple man at the time, bills to pay and play dates to attend; he’d thought nothing of it.

And when he opened the door, greeted with the smell of metal and iron instead of festive food, he’d frozen, seized in horror, _terror_. Blood was smeared up the walls, smudged over the floors, spread further as he forced himself through the house, frantically searching, stepping through thick, sticky puddles of crimson. Sheer _panic_ sweltered through his bloodstream, choking out their names in harsh sobs as he went room to room, finding only empty, cold beds and the stove left on, the oyster stew burnt and smoking.

He’d stood trembling by the fireplace for what felt like hours, unmoving, waiting for the assailants to return, to finish him off. He waited to die with his family, as it should have been. Until they didn’t come, until time ticked over to Christmas day and Raymond Reddington phoned the one man he could trust, rely on.

Sam Milhoan.

This time, he does not freeze, does not falter, sends a screaming bullet shredding through the calf muscle of Lizzie’s attacker as he turns to face the doorway. The knife clatters to the floor, as does the man, who then desperately tries to drag his heavyset body away, effectively trapping himself between Reddington and solid concrete, between a snarling savage beast and unmoving rock. Wielding his own blade, he stalks forwards, the monster within shifting and restless, feeling only vengeance, only wrath and rage, not sparing a glance for Lizzie though he can hear her whimpering, gasping.

Seizing the moaning mess before him by the throat, feeling the tendons and muscles squelching and yielding beneath his grip, noticing the way his eyes bludge, the _knowing_ look of a man who is about to meet his end, pay for his sins. Reddington has seen it before, has seen it _often_. And sometimes he feels like retribution, like there is a _reason_ for his blackened soul and stained hands, slaying the most atrocious of beings, barely human. Tonight he knows that his reason is Lizzie. He would stop at _nothing_ for her, no matter the damage he caused, to himself, to others. If she was safe in the end, he could live with just about _anything_.

As always there is no resistance for the blade as it tears through the flesh, punctures organs with a _pop_ , slithering through muscles until it finally snags on bone. The man gasps and blubbers, blood bubbling at his lips, bursting, small specks of red splattering over Reddington, adding to the carnage, the masterpiece of gore, a field of scarlet, of blossoming poppies. Wrenching the steel out, the handle slippery and slick, he spins away before the body slumps to the ground.

He turns to her, sets his eyes upon her form as it seems to wilt, clothing soaked through with water and blood. Her hair is a mess, tangled and plastered to her skull, clothes ripped and torn in half, to reveal the soft skin of her abdomen, blood weeping out of some wounds, sluggishly spurting out of others. She stares at him, looks so _fearful_ , so _small_ and for a moment he sees her huddled in a closet, frantically searching his face with wide blue eyes. And just like he did so many years ago, he crouches down, reaches out for her hand, only snatching it away when he sees the dried blood that coats it, caked under his nails, crusted over his skin.

He is vaguely aware of others joining them in the room, can _feel_ the presence of Dembe behind him. Yet, all he can focus on is Lizzie; on her wounds and her beaten body, skin that had _finally_ healed after Alexander Slattery’s attack, now once more black and blue. Guilt clings to him like a disease, fusing in his lungs, so much so that he feels a struggle to _breathe_ through it, because this is his fault, his _world_ and he dragged her into it, knowing the peril, the _danger_.

Her name catches in his throat, snags on the remorse and shame lodged there. An ocean wells in her eyes, glistening tears that spill and track down her cheeks, a ragged breath drawn through a wounded chest. It’s a miracle she is still conscious, still looking at him and _seeing_ him. So when she speaks, _breathes_ , voice hoarse and weak, Red feels his brittle bones ache with misery, with relief.

“ _Red_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m anxious to know what you guys thought of this chapter, so please let me know. Next one should be up soon! On a side note, I’m starting to question how I am going to finish this fic, and have discovered there is the possibility that I could begin fleshing out a sequel, since my muse doesn’t seem intent on stopping. Just thought I’d keep you all up to date. Also, (I know this AN is as long as the chapter), to be blunt I don’t know what the fuck is going on about Katerina Rostova in the show since I am not up to date and can only make assumptions from what I see on Tumblr, so some things about her and the night of the fire may not be cannon compliant. Okay, I’m done.


	15. I Can See Widows And Orphans Through My Tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “It’s empty in the valley of your heart,  
> The sun, it rises slowly as you walk,  
> Away from all the fears,  
> And all the faults you’ve left behind.” – The Cave, Mumford and Son’s

Her eyes are open, _seeing_ , though her vision is blurry with tears, with agony. Reddington, _Red_ , cradles her body against his chest, as gentle as he possibly can, aware of her injuries, of the excruciating _pain_ she is in. His fingers reverently drift over her skin, her body, her face, through her hair; as if he is checking that she is still _there_ with him. Instead of looking ahead, his gaze is almost always on her, pools of misery, eyes red rimmed and fearful. Liz can see the bodies he steps over, without thought, without remorse. She can see their absent eyes staring blankly at the walls, the ceiling, at _her_. Blood streaks their faces, crimson ribbons marring their features, lakes of scarlet tarnishing their clothes. Their skin is paling, blue, limbs stiffening, seizing. These men with their twisted minds and sick fantasies have been reduced to carnage, to messes of meat that will rot and spoil. Already the _stench_ of them carries through the air.

It is a miracle she hasn’t passed out from the pain, from the blood loss, that a blanket of darkness has not yet surrounded her. She can feel herself weakening, knows that she is only moments from giving way, but she fights, knowing the panic it would cause, the dread Reddington would suffer through if she were to succumb. So, she _fights_ , dimly aware that help is on the way, having heard Dembe whisper to Red that he would run ahead, contact Mr Kaplan, and that by the time the pair breached the surface of the manor, a team of nurses would be arriving. Red had simply nodded his head, looked back down at her. He hadn’t said a word since he found her, breathed only her name. His lips are a thin line, the twitch beneath his left eye jumping to life, a sign of great emotional torment.

Feeling as if they have walked for hours, that no matter how cautious Red steps, with each tread her wounds _throb_ , Liz all but whimpers when they reach the stairs. Tightening his grip, they ascend to the living room, and are promptly swarmed by a team of medics, as Dembe had promised. Kate Kaplan’s stern features peer at them from without the hive of activity. Scrubs are as of yet, unmarred, stethoscopes are wrapped around necks, a gurney already set out. She feels Red tense as they approach; begin to prod her and talk frantically to each other, pulling at her eyes lids, shining light in her pupils, stating diagnostics, demands. When they lift her out of Red’s arms she feels a rumble through his chest, a warning growl, but he relents, passes her away.

And then his warmth is _gone_ , replaced by the unforgiving surface of the gurney, the impersonal touches of surgeons and nurses. She wonders briefly where they all come from, how many hospitals are now running short staffed, how many people Red has under his wing, how many lives he has corrupted. The man in question is hovering nearby, Dembe and Kate Kaplan standing behind him. So when the darkness finally coaxes Liz into its depths, clouding her vision, her body becoming weightless and _numb_ , she knows he isn’t _alone_.

She isn’t conscious when they move her to the makeshift ambulance, doesn’t witness Reddington forcing himself inside to sit next to her, holding her unnervingly cold hand or the scathing remarks and looks he throws at the nurse who _dares_ to question him. The prickle of needles, the blood transfusion and the IV fluids, don’t make her wince like it would have if she was awake, like when she was a child. She doesn’t feel as they begin to sow her back together, knitting flesh even as they are jostled and bumped, speeding towards Reddington’s safehouse. They will not go to a hospital, he will give them funds for _any_ equipment they need. Liz will stay within his reach until she is healed. He had made that final. It is what he pays them for; their discretion.

When she is wheeled out of the vehicle, she blearily awakes, only for moments. Only to register that the pain has ebbed, but still makes her eyes water. She feels Red’s hand in hers, blinks at him as he smiles down at her sadly, walking amongst the medical officers as they sweep her into the house. Dembe and Baz are already scouting ahead, searching through each and every room, entirely aware that their plans tonight had been leaked. Reddington’s hand is still caked in dried blood; he runs it over her hair. It’s gentle enough to lull her back into sleep.

They deposit her in the main bedroom, having transformed the grand space into an improvised hospital full of beeping machines and sterilised equipment. If Liz had been awake, the smell of bleach would have been enough to turn her stomach, to split her stitches as she heaved in horror. The curtains are drawn, even as the sunlight creeps over the front lawn, over the looming stonewalls and the snow-capped hawthorns and oaks. There are no neighbours, only constant security patrols on the perimeter of the property, no other civilisation for a mile or two. Not entirely off the map, but a grand house with acreage and no reason for anyone to visit. Liz is warm, alone and she is _safe_.

Waking the second time, heavily drugged, Liz giggles and laughs, even as Red coaxes her to rest. The morphine makes her weightless, _painless_. She doesn’t notice the thick white wads of bandage covering her abdomen, doesn’t think of the ropy scars they hide. What she _does_ focus on is the red straw in her drinking cup, the heat of Reddington’s hand as it rests on her thigh, the way he leans over to look into her eyes, managing a wobbly smile as she reaches trembling fingers up to his cheek. She openly marvels at how smooth his skin is; doesn’t see the streaks of blood still smeared across them, only sees the _man_. When he softly laughs at her, tears welling in his eyes as she whispers and compliments, she doesn’t understand, tries to fight the drugs so that his reaction makes _sense_ , but she loses the battle, sinks back into sleep with a small frown on her face. She doesn’t feel his lips as they brush across her forehead, but the crevices of her skin turn smooth.

They rouse her from her drugged stupor, not entirely on purpose, the next morning. Adhesive tugs at the tender skin around her wounds as the older dressings, stained with pale yellow and crimson blood, are changed. Her mind is still muddled by the morphine, but she knows where she is, what led to her being in this state. She knows why Red is asleep in the chair beside her, in a rumpled suit; the blood _finally_ scrubbed away. He looks so small, so utterly _human_ as his eyes flutter beneath closed lids, looking entirely different from the demon he had appeared to be in the basement, ruin and terror dressed in black fatigues with burning, bright eyes.

He wakes shortly after the nurse has scribbled something down on the board that hangs at the bottom of the bed, before having taken her leave. Liz is profoundly glad that they have moved her from the gurney onto an _actual_ bed, not a hospital mattress that is stiff and unforgiving on the back, but a bed that practically swallows her with softness and sheets that do not prickle and scratch at her skin. She turns her head to observe the seat Reddington had slept on, the rigid structure, the way his eyebrows knit together and a hand reflexively reaches for the kink in his neck. A pang of guilt twinges in her chest and she shuffles restlessly, drawing his attention immediately.

His skin is pale, not sporting the healthy glow Liz normally associates with him, and his lips are dry, chapped. Stubble graces his jaw line, silver and glinting in the low light. Heavy bags weigh beneath his eyes, shades of purple and blue. Scabs and scratches are scattered across his features, some deeper than others, but all cleaned. He still manages to smile at her, though it does not reach his eyes and he looks as if it causes physical pain, in all cases more of a grimace than a smile. It doesn’t seem as if he has left her side, and if it hadn’t been for the clean suit and lack of blood, Liz would have thought he had stayed with her for the entire night. And he would have, if Dembe hadn’t have come and dragged him out earlier that morning.

“Are you in pain?” He asks, and she feels a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. His tone is so gravelly, rough, deep and _familiar_. And though she is the one injured, wounded, bed ridden because each time she goes to move it feels as if her stitches are about to split open, he is the one that swam through blood and gore to get to her, stained his already darkened soul. So, reaching out she links their fingers, his hand having been resting only inches from her thigh. They’re clean and soft, dry and warm. Liz doesn’t think of the blood they have drawn, but of the way they carded through her hair, cradled her so gently.

Red looks mystified, astounded, staring down at their hands and minutely shaking his head. His thumb runs along her skin nonetheless, something she seeks great comfort from. Releasing a sigh before swallowing, he looks back up at her, expression patient as he waits for her answer. He won’t say anymore until she does.

“Are you okay?” She asks in return, softly, amused by the way his eyes flicker, automatically jumping to defence, quick wit and snarky replies fighting for dominance on the tip of his tongue. His eyebrows quirk, as if he doesn’t understand the depth of her question, though his eyes burn in their intensity and his grip on her hand tightens.

And then he is standing, breaking their contact, with a smile that seems so _forced_ plastered across his face. Liz frowns at him immediately, but he seems to ignore it, makes his way towards the door, and when he speaks it is with such a jovial tone, as if he is brushing the darkness and danger they had found themselves in away like a cobweb.

“You must be famished, Lizzie. I’ll see to it that something is cooked up for you.”

The door snicks closed behind him and she can hear his footsteps disappearing deeper into the house, would recognise his tread anywhere. With a huff of frustration she stares up at the ceiling, ignoring the persistent throb in her side, the choking self-conscious fear that slithers up her spine at the thought of the mountain range of scar tissue that now stretches across her skin. In the deathly silence she tries not to focus on the previous night, the screaming, the howling, the blood and rattle of gunfire. Her fingers tighten and twist in the sheets, she feels her broken ribs shriek in protest as she draws sharp breaths, can’t drag enough air to dispel the panic rising within. The eyes of her attacker leer down at her, sparkling with menace, shining like the steel of his blades, just as sharp and dangerous.

With eyes squeezed shut and a tongue already so tender, she traps the gasps of fear, between clenched teeth. The sweltering emotions that course and rage through her depleted bloodstream, the blood of _strangers_ that sears in her veins, causes sweat to bead across her skin, to break out and make her shiver in discomfort. And even as vicious memories flash through her vision, vibrant and _real_ , she yells and hollers in her mind, fighting for authority over her rampant fear. Dredging up other memories, forcing them before the torrent of terror, of blinding lights and explosions, Sam is suddenly _there_ , all kind eyes and crooked smiles.

He’s holding her hand, teaching her how to ride a bike, awkwardly jogging beside her as the wheels wobble and weave down the road. She remembers the panic, how white her tiny knuckles had turned, short nails digging into Sam’s tough leathery skin. Tears had pricked and welled in her eyes, the scrapes on her knees still smarting from her last spill. She hadn’t wanted to go on, had wanted to give up on the whole thing, but Sam had scooped her up from the dirt, brushed off her knees and palms, clucked his tongue and wiped at her tears.

“Come on, Butterball, you can’t let your fear get the best of you.”

So with the grim expression of a determined six year-old, Liz had grit her teeth and nodded her head, still sniffling. She tightened her helmet, picked up her bike and sat down. They tried again and again, until by the end of the day, the sun passing below the horizon, little Liz was peddling and weaving down the road like an expert.

Now, as she sits paralysed in terror in this unknown room, unknown house, surrounded by career criminals, she knows she is _safe_. She is away from the sadists’ maze, away from that dark and damaged building, battling her fear, _winning_. Sam’s voice is like a mantra through her mind, drowning all else out, even though her fingers still tremble and tears still well in her eyes. She can hear Reddington’s approach, a steady gait down the hallway. So with jagged and harsh movements she rubs at her eyes, tries to settle her breathing, even as her heart rate sparks, the doorknob twisting.

She can smell whatever he has brought her before she actually sees him. He has changed into another suit, looks a lot more put together, clean shaven. A silver tray he balances on his palm, and where Liz would have kicked the door closed behind her, he turns and shuts it with a quiet click, all elegance and grace. She recognises the moment he notices her puffy eyes and red nose, the way the sheets are twisted around her. Before he gets the chance to comment, his lips parting, Liz cuts him off.

“That was quick,” she says, nodding towards the tray. He doesn’t follow her gaze, continues to look at her, scrutinizing with soft eyes, filled with compassion. She finds herself shifting restlessly once more, and it seems to shake him out of his reverie. A waft of steam follows the lid of the tray as Red reveals a bowl of tomato soup and crusty bread that _oozes_ melted butter.

“Dembe already had it on the stove, so I thought I would freshen up before returning.”

She thanks him with a nod as he places the bowl in her lap, offers her a spoon. It doesn’t go past her notice that he is not eating, just sitting and watching her quietly. The slurp of the hot liquid off the spoon is so _loud_ in the silence that Liz feels awkward, wincing at the heat as it rolls over her wounded tongue. It tastes delicious all the same. She takes another spoonful.

They say nothing as she eats; just furtively glancing at each other when they think the other is not looking, blues eyes laced with curiosity and green with sorrow. He sits in the chair opposite her, legs crossed and hands folded in his lap. Liz thinks he seems far away, as if he is distancing himself, that perhaps her earlier comment had more of an affect than she had anticipated. His face his blank, eyes shuttered, though he occasionally gnaws on the inside of his cheek. Liz follows the movement of his tongue as it runs along his bottom lip, catches herself doing so many times. It’s when those same lips pull up into a smirk she realises that he has noticed too.

After that she focuses on her soup, until her spoon is scraping against porcelain and Reddington is leaning forward to take the empty bowl, fingertips brushing over hers. She smiles at him, even though a thread of indignation ripples through her.

“I’m not a cripple, Red,” she chides gently, and she expects him to smile with her, to realise that she is joking, see the humour in her statement. Instead, he leans forwards on his knees, clasps his hands together, looks at the ground, before his voice, rough and gutted with emotion, rumbles through the room.

“I know, Lizzie.”

She frowns, brows quirking together, moves towards him without thought, until her muscles seize and scream in protest, teeth gritting together and back arching in agony. He is by her side in seconds, whispering her name, propped up on the bed so that their thighs are touching. His eyes are incredibly close as he leans over her, fingertips resting on her cheek. He doesn’t smell like iron and blood, once more the sea clings to him, authentic and crisp. When she gazes up at him, lips parted and breathing harsh, through the pain, through the _confusing_ emotions that have settled in her being, he pulls away, sits upright. He clears his throat, tugs the creases out of his jacket.

“I will not apologise for the... _wreckage_ you witnessed when we left that abominable manor, Lizzie. I will not apologise that you saw... what I can... become,” his voice is tight, constricted, and he won’t look directly at her. It seems that he bites down so hard on his lip that he winces. His eyes narrowing, he gives a minute jerk of his head; a reaction to pain.

With calculated movements, she grasps his hand, expecting him to flinch away.

He doesn’t.

“Red, you don’t need to justify your actions,” she says sternly, punctuating her words with a squeeze of his hand. And he doesn’t. She had seen what those men were capable of, had _heard_ what they would do to her once they had their fun. Reddington, with all the ruin and death that clings to him, couldn’t compare to the _evil_ of The Head Hunters. The world isn’t black and white, it’s _Red_ and it’s _her_ , with blurred lines and dubious morals. If he hadn’t have been there, she would have died; it’s that simple.

Perhaps there was a time when Liz was for honour, for getting justice the _right_ and proper way, but the world Reddington has introduced her to, the mire of brutality and illicit deals, has opened her eyes more than the FBI ever could have. _They_ are tied down by protocol, restrictions, _politicians_ , things that Red doesn’t give a _thought_ to. And now it is he and she against consensus.

“I _will_ apologise for... _leading_... you into such danger, such violence,” he continues, as if she didn’t speak, voice cracking. He is looking at her hand again, rubbing restless circles with the pad of his thumb, as if hoping the words he needs will materialise on her skin, as permanent as a tattoo once he has spoken them.

He doesn’t mention her injuries, the angry red gashes that mar her body, etched into her skin with such violence, but she can tell he is thinking of them. His eyes are drawn to her abdomen, hidden beneath the soft white of a duvet, the fingers of his other hand twitching on the covers. Liz has not seen them yet, wonders if they are as bad as she imagines, if Red has seen them. She wants to ask, cracks open her jaw to do so, decides against it, prefers the unknown for _once_ in her life. He hasn’t noticed her indecision, looks so deeply troubled it makes Liz ache.

“You couldn’t have predicted that we would have been ambushed,” she whispers to him, tries to meet his eyes, tilting her head to do so. This emotion that runs through him, this sorrow and remorse, it has left him unhinged, something she has never witnessed before, it’s something that runs _deep_.

“Red?”

He looks at her, scratches at the top of his head, catches his bottom lip between his teeth. The next question halts on Liz’s tongue, hesitates, not ready to spew forth into the world when he looks so vulnerable, so _small_. Raymond Reddington, larger than life, stronger than most, looking weak, exposed. It unnerves her, the power he always seems to possess all but gone, seeming to dissipate. There is a threshold she feels she must pass through, finds the profiler within her untameable, but more so, the _need_ to understand him, to _know_ him, compels her forward.

“What happened to your family?”

Flinching away from her, Red looks wounded, and Liz can feel her words sizzling around them, floating through the air, everlasting now that she has uttered them. Guilt claws at her, but she tugs him closer, doesn’t release his hand as he tries to pull away. She won’t let him flee. And when he realises to escape would be futile, he seems to shut down, face falling blank, eyes turning to steel. It terrifies Liz, more than when she first met him, more than when he bore down on her attacker, covered in blood and crazed. He is emotionless now.

“That subject is off limits, Elizabeth.”

“You didn’t abandon them.”

It’s a statement, not a question. She has seen the way he interacts with Dembe, with Mr Kaplan, the undeniable love he feels for them. _That_ he cannot fake. Love _cannot_ be faked. A Navy officer being groomed for admiral, a _decent_ , seemingly honourable man would not just abandon his family. Judging by his closed off expression, Liz _knows_ that there is something more at play, something that _drove_ him to be the man he is today.

Usually, what she has come to expect from him is a an anecdote, woven with metaphors, or a scathing remark, accompanied with that sly grin of his and tilt of his head. Now, he sits, shifts, restless and caged. Liz thinks that if he had fur it would have been bristling, hackles raised. He releases a jagged breath from between clenched teeth, runs an agitated hand behind his neck.

“No, I did not abandon them,” he finally growls, looking straight at her now, eyes a blazing green, molten jade, and Liz struggles to maintain eye contact. He’s angry, _tormented_ , hounded by demons and ghosts, more than she could _possibly_ comprehend.

“What happened to them?” And this time his reply is instantaneous, and his eyes are red rimmed, spirit broken. Liz knows it takes a lot for him to admit, knows that the tremble in his hands is suppressed emotion, fear. Connections make him exposed, weak, he is careful to keep people at arm’s length. This admission, it forges something between them, tugs at their breastbones until their pressed together and she can feel his heat surrounding her, his breath brushing over her collarbone.

“I don’t know.”

And it’s gruff, hollow. Liz feels tears prick at her eyes as she sees the anguish engraved into his features; lips parted in pain, the lines around his eyes deep and cavernous. With trembling fingers, she reaches for his cheek, feels his sigh as he leans into the contact, watches in awe as he squeezes his eyes shut, entirely losing control. Gently she traces over his lips, up past his sideburns, behind his ears, to the back of his neck, marvelling at how soft his skin is, his hair. She tugs him so close, that soon he is pressed entirely against her, curled into her chest almost, his breathing unsteady, eyes still closed. And yet, positioned as they are, he is avoiding leaning on her injuries, curving his body _just right_.

She leans down so her lips brush the shell of his ear, whispers,

“I think I might have nightmares tonight. Please stay with me.”

And then presses a kiss to his forehead, sighing as he wraps his arms around her, beneath her shoulder blades, holding her tight, secure and she isn’t sure if it’s for his benefit or hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Let me know what you think! Next one should be up soon if my muse cooperates, sorry that this one took so long, I feel a bit weird about it.


	16. Running You With Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You said, "Ain't this just like the present,  
> To be showing up like this?”  
> As the moon waned to crescent,  
> We started to kiss.” – Blood Bank, Bon Iver

She sits with elbows pressed to the cold granite of the bench top, head cradled in her hands and hair falling about her face. Blue and purple have blossomed around the smooth skin of her neck, creeping from beneath the soft woollen collar of her jumper. They are ugly, a stark testament of what she has survived. Her socked feet slide along the steel rung of the stool she is perched upon, causing the fabric of her pyjama pants to catch and tug at the wads of bandage concealed underneath. Absently she runs her fingertips over the sheen of flour that coats the counter, her huff of laughter sending it wafting across the kitchen like a puff of wind across sand. Reddington stands opposite her, dressed in his vest and shirt, jacket having been divested, sleeves rolled up and dough between his fingers.

Liz has been bedridden for days, growing frustrated, fighting both the ache of her wounds and the growing discomfort in her back. Unable to move, her body would grow uncomfortably hot under the quilt, until she was forced to throw off the blankets, after which her skin would prickle with the chill of winter. It would make her grit her teeth, leaving one leg twisted over the covers, one limb too cold and her torso too hot.

Red would often come and sit beside her, offer her books to read and tea to drink, ask her opinion on questions for his latest crossword, and chat aimlessly, anything to pass the time. Neither of them has spoken about the Head Hunters, or the night after, the night where Red had fallen asleep pressed to her side, the memory of his family clawing at the back of his eyelids. Liz does not dare mention them again.

When he asks her to stay for Christmas the next morning, she can see sadness lingering in the green depths of his eyes, even though his tone is light, carefree, he is _haunted_. He and Dembe usually spend the holiday together, Mr Kaplan dropping by on Christmas Eve. And when Liz hesitates to accept the offer, he claims that it means he can keep an eye on her injuries, but she knows he doesn’t want her to be alone for the holiday, that perhaps he understands that feeling all too well.

Sam is gone.

She _would_ be alone.

So she stayed, and when she managed to haul her battered body from the bed she had been confined to for _days_ she stumbled down the stairs and into the kitchen to discover one frowning Raymond Reddington, with flour on his nose and down his front, the oven humming away. Dembe stood beside him, a cheeky grin splitting his features and a handful of white powder resting in his palm. When she asked them what they were doing, Reddington curtly replied that it was tradition for them to make gingerbread cookies at Christmas, even if Dembe _insisted_ on acting so childishly. She grinned at him until a smile tugged at his lips and he had to focus back on the mixture so that he didn’t laugh.

Now she watches as Dembe, the fearsome body guard of a criminal mastermind, admires the tree-shaped delicacies he cuts with precision as Reddington rolls up and then flattens the leftovers. It is rinse and repeat, until the trays are being slid into the oven and the Concierge of Crime is turning back to her, covered in flour and excitement burning in his eyes. With a clap of his hands, followed by a cloud of white, he declares that they will be ready in fifteen minutes. Liz just nods her head with a breath of laughter, watching with fascination as he wipes at the benches and fills the dishwasher, Dembe by his side. When he’s finished, he grabs a carton of eggnog from the fridge, splashes it into some mugs for the three of them with a swig of scotch and slides it across the bench, sipping his with pleasure before the porcelain reached Liz’s palm.

It’s eerily domestic, the way he moves about the kitchen, the spirit of Christmas wafting through the house with the smell of the baked goods, the smooth slide of eggnog, the warmth of scotch. He has carved out a life for himself after the loss of his wife and daughter, fashioned and forged a Christmas with his fellow criminals after years of anguish and pain. There is something about his movement though, something _heavy_ that gives Liz the impression he has yet to entirely rid himself of the burden, doubts he ever will. And yet, when he looks at her, his eyes seem to alight, seem to _blaze_ with passion and excitement and _hope_. It makes her nervous, causes her gut to swirl and her fingers to clench.

She follows the two men deeper into the house, cradling her drink in hand. The furnishings and interior are lavish, rich and antique. Polished timber floors creak beneath their feet, the most beautiful of paintings adorn the walls, and great windows open out to reveal the grounds of the manor, now blanketed in white. Liz hasn’t had the chance to explore the house, the grounds, as of yet, knows that her curiosity will soon get the best of her and that soon she’ll be peering into every room without thought, finding every nook and cranny in the gardens. She wonders if Red would mind walking with her.

Stepping into the living room, a hearth crackles and sizzles in the silence, spreading warmth through the house that causes Liz to curl her sock clad toes in delight. The hearth in her own room had burned out during the night, a rarity, since she had woken previously to see Red stoking the flames, prodding at the coals, moving as a shadow in the darkness, so at _home_. She fears she may have grown accustomed to the luxury, thinks of her cold apartment and its rattling heater with disappointment.

Plonking down onto the couch next to Dembe, wincing as her wounds throb in protest, she ignores the concerned glance that Reddington throws her way and sips her eggnog. She doesn’t know how she expected Red to react to her injuries, the constant mothering and concern having surprised her. When, for the first time a couple of days ago, Liz had asked the nurse if she could see her wounds, Red had stood by her side, gnawing on his lip in apprehension as the bandages were peeled back to reveal angry red flesh, clean and stitched, but ugly all the same. He didn’t say anything, just met her eyes, nodded his head once and offered her his hand. Liz felt his fingers tightening against hers in reassurance when her palm slid against his; she had been able to smile then, it was just skin in the end.

The day passes slowly, peacefully, they sit and drink, Reddington disappearing briefly only to re-emerge with the tray of gingerbread and tubes full of icing. It’s settling, calming, the way they all concentrate on their tasks, hands growing sticky, icing smudging over the table, over the biscuits. Red teases Dembe mercilessly about his decorating skills, which in turn results in the younger man snatching at his employer’s _immaculate_ biscuits, practically pieces of art, and unceremoniously shoving them into his mouth with a wide grin. Liz smothers her laughter, rooting her eyes to her own tree when Reddington throws a glare her way. It’s banter and it’s playful, the darkness of the week doesn’t lurk and linger, it doesn’t settle in the crevices of their beings, it is drowned out by _joy_.

A towering tree has already been set up, tucked away in the corner, green pine-needles brushing the ceiling, glinting baubles throwing coloured light across the room. Dembe and Red must have set it up while Liz was confined to her room, a tradition they must partake in every year. As she gazes at it, at the precise way it’s decorated so that it is even, perfect, she notices the unique decorations, the ones that are so obviously the _favourites_ , the ornaments that make it _their_ Christmas tree. The strings that hold them aloft are worn, some of the colours faded; they have been _loved_. She wonders where Reddington has them stored, how far the boxes they were contained within have travelled, which continents they have seen. Below the branches rests the presents, neatly wrapped and nestled within the tinsel placed around them. With horror, Liz spots her name, on more than one present, feels panic rise and swell, now dreading Christmas day, the awkwardness that will undoubtedly occur when she has nothing to give.

And that day creeps closer and closer until it is Christmas Eve and Kate Kaplan is sitting at the dining table with them, a turkey steaming on a silver tray and glasses cradling the darkest of wine, rich and tasteful. Snow falls from the heavens and coats the outside world in white, is whisked away in the chilled wind as they sit in the comfort and warmth of the dining room.

Reddington is ever the host, rattling off anecdote after anecdote, serving the food, refilling drinks. She sits by his side, able to observe his unfaltering cheer, the way his eyes sparkle with mirth when he looks upon her, upon Dembe. He is at ease, at _home_ with the people that surround him, and the unchecked happiness that seems to radiate off of him this day makes her _ache_. This man, this enigmatic man with a smile that makes her warm and eyes that can turn to steel and hands that card over her skin with such care and then turn red with blood, is perhaps even a mystery to himself. He is a man that treasures those he cares about so dearly, so protectively, because he knows pain and he knows suffering, knows what it is like to have his happiness seized and stripped away with the people he loves.

Liz has noticed over the past few days, that his eyes linger on her just a bit too long, has noticed the fear that bleeds into the green when she winces in pain, the _sorrow_. She can see the war that rages under his skin, the way it itches and crawls beneath. Caring, for a man such as him, is dangerous, can so easily be manipulated in the darkest and most heinous of ways, and he _fears_ it, fears the happiness around him, even though he smiles and laughs, can’t keep a mask around Dembe, around Kate Kaplan, around _her_. He desperately needs control because it is the only thing that keeps him sane. And that is why it seems as if he knows all the answers, seems as if he is entirely in control of his emotions, of himself, because he _needs_ to.

“So, will you be staying with Raymond until the new year, Elizabeth?” Mr Kaplan asks, bringing Liz out of her analysis, tearing her eyes away from the man in question. He is looking at her curiously, his head tilted to the side as she stumbles over an answer.

“I think that was the plan, yes,” she manages to reply, quickly glancing back to Reddington, who nods his head, “I can manage to change my own bandages, but the help is appreciated.”

And not to mention the company, the steady presence the men around her have provided. Without them, Liz believes she would have broken by now, wilted and frayed as her memories plague her. Her showers burn hot, mercilessly so, the heat driving her veins to the surface of her skin until it looks as if she is laced with poison and Reddington is oh so conveniently knocking on the door, telling her not to waste all the hot water. She knows that he is aware of her deadened gaze as the water sluices over her body, that until he calls for her, she can’t physically move, stricken with panic.

Reddington is the one who saves her from boiling herself alive and Dembe is the one who comes to her room with food when Red is off on business, plays board games with her when the boredom threatens to consume. As silent and stony as he had first seemed, Dembe is cheeky and wise, playful and protective. He is sweet and it makes Liz smile, even when her wounds throb and itch.

The stern woman, nods her head once, offers her a thin smile before turning to Dembe, moving on with the conversation flawlessly. Red stays quiet, takes a sip of his wine, seeming to stare off into the distance, away from the Christmas cheer, somewhere else. Liz knows that she is welcome to stay, that Red wouldn’t have expected or accepted anything else, but something unpleasant unfurls within her, nervousness. She doesn’t want to push him, can see through all the bravado, smiles, and flippant comments, that he is just as fragile as she. That she needs him, she is certain, that he needs her, she is certain of that as well, but whether he _wants_ her, she is undecided. She _scares_ him.

The clinking and chime of cutlery, the crackle of the hearth is background noise to their chatter as they decimate the turkey, Reddington and Dembe seeming ravenous in their hunger. Liz picks at her food, her appetite not having returned fully. However, whatever Red piles onto her plate she eats, knowing that his coaxing would drive her insane and that she’d rather avoid it all together. The smirk that graces his features alerts her to the fact that he has realised that and will use it to his advantage whenever necessary. She scowls and stabs her turkey with unwarranted force.

Kate Kaplan takes her leave once they have finished their meal, declining Reddington’s offer of a nightcap, saying with a humour that surprises Liz,

“No dearie, the criminal classes rarely ever rest, so when you’re not off cavorting and creating havoc, I try to catch up on some much needed rest.”

Red laughs, his smile wide as he presses a kiss to her cheek and embraces her warmly. Dembe follows after, practically envelops the tiny woman with his bulky frame. Liz simply waves goodbye, remains where she is sitting as Mr Kaplan gives her a nod and is escorted by the two men to her car. The house suddenly seems eerily silent and Liz scrapes at her plate with her cutlery just to make some noise, the silence so oppressive. She glances out the window, can see as the snow swirls in the headlights of Mr Kaplan’s car, can see Red’s silhouette, still so imposing.

When the pair reappear in the living room, dusted with snow, Liz has moved herself to the couch, is curled up staring at the flames that dance and flicker, that bathe her and the room in soft orange light. With a nod that she does not see from Reddington, Dembe quietly bids her goodnight and disappears off into the house, the sound of his footsteps retreating upstairs like distant thunder. Turning to look at him, at the way his hands are buried in his pockets, head cocked at an angle, a crooked smile gracing his features, she stands. The firelight dances over him, makes him appear so _soft_ and warm, especially the way he gazes upon her, eyes hooded.

“Would you like a nightcap, Lizzie?”

She nods her head once, her name rolling of his tongue like a prayer, voice and tone as deep and seductive as ever. Following him, he snatches up two glasses and a decanter of scotch off the coffee table, something that makes Liz roll her eyes, before passing them to her and fossicking around in the drawers for a cigar. He then leads her upstairs and out onto the balcony, into the breezy and chilly air of Christmas Eve and the winter wonderland that churns around them. After pouring them both a drink, fingertips brushing over Liz’s as he passes her a glass, he rests his forearms on the balconies heedless of the snow that seeps into his jacket and dress shirt. Liz does likewise, all too aware of how close she is standing, the side of her body pressed to his, from shoulder to thigh.

“So, have you organised fireworks for New Years Eve?” She asks playfully, taking a sip of her scotch, savouring the taste, the burn as it slithers down her throat, ignites in her belly. Red is preparing a cigar, a ritual that Liz doubts she will ever grow tired of, the way his lips part, the pink of his tongue. She finds it hypnotic.

Her question surprises a laugh out of him, causes him to pull the cigar out of his mouth and turn to look at her. He is smiling, again, head slanted to the side as she mimics him. The smoke wafts around him, his green eyes peering out of it, and it all seems rather familiar.

“That would be highly illegal, Elizabeth,” he teases, taking a drag of his cigar and talking around it, eyes glinting as he leans on the railing, “I would never partake in such a thing.”

She laughs softly, staring out into the darkness. They slip into a companionable silence, completely at ease, something she was sure they would never experience. Standing beside him now, her body pressed against his, feeling the warmth of him, the steady and solid presence, she thinks back to the warehouse, to the tremble that had radiated through her body, the smoke that snaked around him as it does now, the imposing figure that strikes so much _fear_ into hearts of men only a few steps away.

It had been only months ago, and now, _now_ , she _knows_ him, can pick his habits and his nervous ticks. He trusts her, has introduced her to the people he holds dear to him, has shown her what makes him most vulnerable, has allowed her to _connect_ with those he cares for. Red doesn’t pretend to be anything other than he is, is so blunt, so _comfortable_ in his skin, even when she can see it trying to crawl from him, even when his eyes dim with the horrors he has seen, committed.

And she knows that he’ll eat just about anything, that he snuffles in his sleep, prefers full cream milk in his tea, takes his coffee as black as the abyss of space.  
She trusts him, and not only that, but she deeply cares for him.

“Do you know who leaked the information about our raid to the Head Hunters?” She asks and it is a question that has been lingering in her mind from the moment she woke. Her eyes move over to his form, analysing his reaction.

And it isn’t much of one, a tilt of his head and a swipe of his tongue across his lips. His eyes seem uncertain, unnerved, as if he isn’t entirely sure of himself. He is silent for so long that Liz believes he may not answer, until his voice cracks through the night, gruff.

“We are making headway.”

It is enough, as much as she is going to get, so she turns her head to look back out over the balcony.

“Thank you for coming back for me,” she says to the wind, to the trees, to the darkness, her voice catching and being swept away into the night. He doesn’t turn towards her, and perhaps talking into the inky blackness is easier, that their bravery is battered as of late. Taking a drag of his cigar, she wonders what words are tumbling through his mind, sliding along his tongue, trapped behind his teeth.

“There is no need to thank me, Lizzie,” he replies eventually, and Liz is not surprised, had expected denial and she tamps down the annoyance that rises within, instead breathes deeply through her nose.

Red is damaged, as harsh as the term seems; he’s a fractured man glued back together with desperation, stubbornness, perseverance. Liz wants to be gentle for now, gentle like the snow as it floats down from above, gentle like the silence that has settled over the grounds.

“When someone does something nice you’re supposed to say thank you,” she retorts playfully, turning her body to face him, waiting for him to do the same, which he does, after taking a sip of his scotch. They are standing so close now, a breath away. He’s chewing on his lip and looking down at her. He doesn’t flinch when she leans up, presses a kiss to his cheek and whispers her gratitude across his skin. Instead, she feels him lean in, his body shifting minutely and she smiles against him, until he pulls back.

With a nod of his head, he downs the rest of his drink, eyes drifting once more to the grounds. There is no more to be said and they lapse back into the quiet, until Liz is swallowing the last of her drink and they make their way back inside. The glasses clink as they are placed back on the table, and Liz is just about ready to bid Reddington good night when he says with a laugh,

“Merry Christmas, Lizzie.”

She looks to the clock hanging over the hearth, the hearth that is dying, now merely embers, and smiles, remembering. Reaching into her pocket, feeling Reddington’s eyes on her, she pulls out a slip of paper, flicks it between her fingers nervously.

“It isn’t much, it is _nothing_ , really,” she says hesitantly, passing it over, watching his expression. A frown has creased his brows as he accepts the paper, the _photo_ , from her. “It’s just... I didn’t know what else to get you.”

He doesn’t seem as if he is listening, is holding the Polaroid so delicately between his fingers. She hears him clear his throat, sees as his eyes become red rimmed, watery, and isn’t certain whether she should leave him to his privacy. When he looks back up at her, he is smiling, a choked laugh escaping him, before his eyes are drawn back to the image.

It is the photo she found of Red and Sam, when they were still so young, still so innocent of the horrors of the world. She’d kept it with her since she’d found it, tucked away in her purse, retrieved only when she noticed the presents under the Christmas tree. There hadn’t been any hesitance when she decided to give it to him, had witnessed how much he cared for her father, even if she didn’t entirely understand their connection. She has photos of Sam, copious photos, giving this one up was nothing, seeing the way he smiled, the way it affects him, makes her insides warm.

“Thank you,” he whispers, voice gruff, and Liz offers him a shaky smile, doesn’t have anything else to say. Now it seems is the time for privacy, so she bids him a merry Christmas and disappears off to her room, leaving him with his thoughts, memories, the photo, and a dying fire.

The days pass by as they did before Christmas eve. Christmas day is filled with teasing and drinking, reading and sleeping, laughing and smiling. Liz had woken early in the morning, but still emerged into the kitchen to find Red and Dembe cooking breakfast. With excitement they ate their meals, and then piled around the tree, giving presents. With an awkward smile, she accepted her gift from Dembe, feeling guilty that she hadn’t gotten him anything and saying so. He waved away her apology, indicating to her present, and with a toothy grin, saying he will get payback for it.

He had gotten her boxing gloves.

Thankfully, Reddington said they couldn’t spar until her wounds had fully recovered. She’d smiled at him, ignored Dembe with a roll of her eyes as he laughed and joked, saying that it will just give him more time to prepare.

It was after that when Red passed her his gift, so neatly wrapped; flat and thin. She gingerly picked at the sticky tape, feeling as awkward as one does after receiving a present, not wanting to seem ungrateful, and finding that in the end the gratitude always felt _forced_ anyway. When the wrapping paper falls away, Liz grins across at him, laughs.

It was the recipe to the lemon tart she had refused to order at the cafe they had visited before the Head Hunters, before _everything else_.

“You do realise that I can’t cook?” Liz asked, glancing up at him, her cheeks beginning to ache from her smile.

“I’m sure we can teach you the basics,” he replied, his tongue running across his lips. Dembe nodded his head in agreement, even if it _was_ the lemon tart and not the cheesecake.

And that is how they find themselves a few days later, huddled in the kitchen, weighing, stirring, mixing. The oven hums away, heating the already warm room. Reddington has delegated himself as head chef, Dembe and Liz may as well have been the dishwashers. At first Liz tries to argue, tries to do _something_ for herself, before she hears Dembe’s soft chuckle and turns to him in frustration.

“There is no hope, Elizabeth,” he tells her with a shrug of his broad shoulders, before turning back and scrubbing at a pot. When she turns to Reddington, hands on hips and huffing at him, she catches him smirking at her, before spinning away and sliding the cake tin into the oven.

Unfortunately, it tastes delicious, perhaps better than the one at the cafe.

But of course, she doesn’t admit that, not to him.

And it lasts them until New Years Eve, where they sit in the living room after dinner and have their last slice. Already they have heavily indulged in drink, Dembe cradling a beer, Reddington with a scotch, of course, and Liz as well with her own glass of amber liquid. She can feel the heat in her cheeks, the numbing sensation in her lips. Both her and Dembe’s speech is affected, but Reddington, he seems immune to the drink, just seems to laugh more, and Liz thinks suspiciously it’s more _at them_ than with them.

Liz knows that she is talking excessively, aimlessly, splayed where she is on the living room floor, back pressed to the bottom of the armchair that Reddington occupies. His legs bounce occasionally and more often than not, Liz is fiddling with the knot of his laces. Dembe watches her steadily as she speaks, even if she isn’t paying that much attention herself. He concentrates on her words, or tries to, his eyes drifting over the living room, meeting Reddington’s amused gaze before falling back onto Liz. She doesn’t falter, talks and talks, until she thinks that possibly she has outspoken Red.

Dembe doesn’t make it to twelve o’clock, slips into slumber just before half past eleven. Liz giggles at his snoring, even as Red rolls his eyes and stands. On wobbly legs, grasping his arm for support, she follows him up the stairs, which requires an _unbelievable_ amount of attention, until they are once again out on the balcony and the cold air whips around them, sobering Liz, if only a little.

No snow falls tonight, the skies are clear, the stars twinkling and glinting at them from above. Liz rests her head on his shoulder, leaning as he is against the railing once more. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word. He simply stares up at the sky, breathes in time with her, so steady and sure. She can feel herself smiling, tightens her grip where it is on his forearm, until he turns to look at her with a fondness in her eyes that makes her heart ache. Gently his fingertips graze over her cheek, tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

And then the sky is alive, bursting with colour.

Liz turns and watches the fireworks with joy, feels the _boom_ of them rattle through her body. In the distance, the sky burns with reds and blues, greens and oranges, beautiful blooming flowers that live and die in the sky, blossom and wilt all in a matter of seconds, the only impressions of them on the inside of one’s eyelids.

It’s with wide eyed delight that she cranes her neck up to the sky, standing on her tip toes to see beyond the trees. She feels Red shift beside her, feels as he softly grips her shoulders and manoeuvres her so that he now stands behind her and she can see through a crack in the thick canopies of the trees. He is pressed close behind her, she can feel him, is so _aware_ of him.

“Happy New Year, Lizzie,” he breathes quietly, and an involuntary shivers shudders through her body.

So she turns to him, a small smile gracing her lips.

“Happy New Year, Red.”

She is still drunk, still unsteady on her feet and she stumbles slightly. And of course he catches her, his fingers firm as they sink into her biceps. He huffs out a laugh, steadies her, ignores her mumbled apologies as he leads her back inside, out of the cold and towards her room, an arm looped through hers.

“Celebrations are over, Lizzie,” he says when she begins to protest, “It’s time to get some rest.”

With a resigned nod of her head, she enters her room, can feel his presence behind her. She turns to him, offers him a wobbly smile, her eyes beginning to slide shut before she has even made it to her bed. He bids her a goodnight, a nod of the head, no kiss on the cheek, no lingering touches, just a nod and the click of the door as it shuts behind him.

She is asleep in minutes.

And when she awakes it’s from a confusing dream, not a nightmare, but a dream about right and wrong, a war of emotions, a conflict of _want_. Night is still heavy around the house, the silence absolute, and she is positively _starving_. Not to mention dehydrated, her mouth uncomfortably dry and breath disgustingly sour. She heaves herself from the bed, expects to feel dizzy, and instead finds that she is relatively sober, the numbness gone and the weight of her limbs having returned to normal.

The floorboards creak and groan beneath her bare feet no matter how carefully she treads, so it is with great relief when she reaches the bottom of the stairs, begins to head to the kitchen, well away from any of the occupied bedrooms. She notices that Dembe is no longer asleep on the couch; perhaps having woken and gone to his room, or had been sent there by Reddington.

That is when she becomes aware of the light spilling down the hallway, the clink and thud of the fridge door. She sees him when she steps into the kitchen. He is peering into the fridge, fossicking for food.

“Perhaps your New Year’s Resolution should be sleeping,” she says quietly, both impressed and disappointed that he doesn’t flinch, that she hasn’t taken him by surprise at all. He simply turns to look at her, a half smile thrown her way.

“How are you feeling?” Red asks. His voice is completely devoid of sleep.

She shrugs her shoulders in reply, makes her way over to the sink after grabbing a glass, flicking on the faucet and listening as the pipes in the house rattle and jump to life like a groaning beast. The water slides down her throat, a monsoon of rain over a desert, washing away the grit and dryness. She practically moans in pleasure and Reddington laughs softly at her.

“I hope this doesn’t become a regular occurrence,” he comments idly, swivelling on one of the bar stools so he can face her, forearms resting against cool marble. She laughs, shakes her head, makes her way over and sits beside him.

It is so _easy_ to be with him, to have the darkness shroud them and to not feel _afraid_. She is at peace with him, so incredibly comfortable that she craves his touch, the firm feel of his body against hers, his heat seeping through his clothing and through hers. And though she doesn’t completely understand him, though she _tries_ desperately to be able to, she cannot help but care for him. The thought of leaving, both he and Dembe, in the next few days grips her with an unrelenting anxiety. She would miss him, them, and the thought terrifies her.

“I don’t know what I want,” she whispers, and she knows she has his attention, can feel his gaze on her though she cannot bring herself to meet it. Tentatively, she reaches out and takes his hand, feels the smooth skin beneath her fingertips. It stops her from rubbing at her scar.

“I’m so _scared_ , Red.”

“Of what?” he questions, and it’s with the tone of a man that would stop at nothing to protect her, to guarantee her safety, _burn the world_. She manages to lift her head, can feel the tremor in her fingers, knows that he has noticed it too as he gives her hand a comforting squeeze. Blue eyes meet green and she takes a breath, shaky and nervous. His brows knit together; she can see that even in the darkness.

“You.”

And her voice cracks, the word withering in the air around them.

There are things she has left unsaid, _so many things_ , and it is cruel, she knows to keep him in limbo, but the words are locked in her jaw, sealed behind her lips. She isn’t scared of _him_ , or the danger that lingers and clings to him like a second skin, but of the _confliction_ he brings, the ache in her chest when he smiles at her, the devotion, the loyalty she feels for him, a murderer, a criminal. She cares for him, deeply, and she knows the disruption it will bring to her life, isn’t sure if she is ready for such an upheaval of normality, if she is willing to let go. And then she wonders if perhaps it is too late for such worries.

He falls still, she isn’t even entirely sure if he is breathing. Their eyes remain locked, his burning in their intensity. When he retracts his hand she feels her stomach drop, her heart stumble, and his next words are enough to make her flinch. Except she doesn’t, she doesn’t look away, and she doesn’t move. There is something in his eyes, something like despair that keeps her rooted to the spot.

“I’m so sorry, Lizzie,” he whispers, slowly reaching up and cupping her cheek, leaning forwards until their only inches apart, and that is when she _understands_. It’s not rejection, not from him.

He knows. He understands _her_ , always has.

And Raymond Reddington doesn’t believe he is worthy.

She isn’t scared of _him_ , but he _is_ scared of _himself_.

“That isn’t the most tactful thing to say after such a declaration,” she whispers, closing her eyes as his hand slips into her hair, fingers tangling in her curls, cupping the back of her neck, drawing her in.

“It wasn’t the most tactful declaration,” he murmurs in response, his breath ghosting over her lips, her face. It’s like a gust of wind riddled with promise, the kind of wind sailors rejoice over when their sails hang slack and lifeless for days on end. It’s _hope_.

She shifts on her seat until she is perched precariously; about to tip over, spill onto the floor, but it is of no matter. His lips are soft, firm, and it’s enough to derail Liz entirely, immediately. He pulls her closer, is so gentle, so steady and _collected_ , even now, even as she whimpers into his mouth.

His teeth and tongue are lined with discovery.

Liz can feel her veins singing, her body melting, her temperature rising as if she is nursing a poison within. His other hand has moved to her hip, is drawing her even closer until they both have to stand, and she is pushing him up against the bench, body pressed entirely to his. There is an urgency to their movements, harsh breaths and deep groans, until Reddington slows her, coaxes her back down with soft touches, lingering kisses. That is when she notices that his hand is resting on the deepest of her wounds, that his eyes are now drawn to it. His lips are parted still, red from Liz’s attention.

When he looks back up at her, he is smiling, presses a kiss to her forehead and whispers,

“Happy New Year, Lizzie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, this chapter almost killed me, but here it is my lovely readers. I really hope you enjoyed it because, I’m pretty certain, there is going to be a healthy dose of angst in the next chapter.


	17. Be Careful Of The Curse That Falls On Young Lovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers,  
> Stars so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters,  
> A man who’s pure of heart and says his prayers by night,  
> May still become a wolf when the autumn moon is bright.” - Howl, Florence & The Machine

She wakes to the rhythmic buzzing of her phone, the rattle enough to make her groan and roll over to the bedside table, hand grasping blindly for the object in question. Her back pops, cracks, as she reaches, sleep clinging to her fumbling fingers until _finally_ she’s disconnecting the charger and squinting at the too bright screen, turning to face the ceiling.

It’s Tom.

Only a simple message wishing that she had a pleasant holiday and that perhaps they could go out for coffee one day soon.

He finishes with an, _I miss you_.

Liz bites down on her lip, feels guilt soar through her body, similar to the way the wave of euphoria had torn through her bloodstream when Red had kissed her goodnight earlier that morning, so passionately, against her bedroom door. His hands had been tangled in her hair, his breath hot against her skin, desperate and wanting, as if his control was slipping, as if she was _addictive_. And then he’d torn himself away, the fingertips skating up her rib cage drifting back down to rest at her waist, his other hand disentangling from her locks. He wasn’t smiling when he rested his forehead against hers, before wishing her a good sleep and slipping down the hallway, leaving her dishevelled and shaking.

She understands that he doesn’t want to push her, that they are both entirely aware of the position it may put her in. There is still so much uncertainty that lingers in her mind, the conflict of her morals, of her _emotions_ , the raging war of _want_ and _logic_. So she had turned back to her door, went to sleep in her own bed, thankful for the moment they had shared, knowing the possibility that he may shut down the next morning, that she may as well. It is the condition of being human and scared, _torn_.

Ultimately, she knows that there will be repercussions.

And now, lying tangled in her sheets, with her mobile phone clutched in her hand and Tom’s name glaring back at her, she knows there is no turning back. That whatever happens between she and Reddington, Tom will be a distant memory, an old chapter. She won’t go back to him, she is sure of that. The normalcy of him, it doesn’t drive her, doesn’t want her to search beneath the surface for _more_ , there is no complexity with him, he is _safe_.

She flicks him a message, inviting him over, that she would be home in the afternoon. He will be sweet and smiling and she’ll have a spine of steel as she ends it with him, watches as his eyes fill with disappointment and asks questions she will not be able to answer.

Anxiety coils and roils like a tumultuous river through her veins as she throws off her quilt, it is an old friend now, loiters in her blood stream from the moment Reddington had carried her from the Head Hunters’ lair. With a shaky sigh she makes her way out of her bedroom and down to the kitchen, greeted by Dembe with a cup of tea and a smile.

Red isn’t in the room.

And Liz tries not to ponder on that too long, instead getting to work helping Dembe with breakfast, though she merely hovers behind him as he fries eggs and butters toast, chatting amiably with her. He isn’t the slightest bit hungover.

She can’t hear movement upstairs, not over the whistle of the kettle, the sizzle of the frying pan, though she strains. Loosing threads of Dembe’s conversation as she concentrates, she stutters for replies when he falls silent and looks at her with a small frown, noticing her lack of attention.

Eventually they take their individual plates and sit at the dining table, the steam of their meals wafting to the ceiling. They look out over the snow covered lawn. There are no tracks in the white, no sign of life outside, though Liz keeps scanning. And Dembe, ever attentive, must notice as they lull once more into silence and with a laugh, he says,

“He is in the shower, Elizabeth.”

She frowns at him, a question in her eyes.

“That’s late for him.”

Dembe just nods his head, returns to his meal, and soon she can hear Red’s distinctive gait upstairs, the soft click of his bedroom door as he shuts it. And suddenly she doesn’t feel like eating, because if he is awake so late, perhaps it means he didn’t sleep _at all_ , maybe only succumbed when exhaustion claimed him. She pushes her plate away when she hears his tread coming down the stairs, forces herself to gaze out the window until he greets her.

“Good morning, Lizzie,” he says brightly, and she turns to him, smiles because he’s grinning at her, only half dressed, still has his grey tie looped around his neck and his nimble fingers trailing up the buttons of his vest. He turns his attention to Dembe.

“I’m positively _starving_ , Dembe.”

And around a mouth full of food and poking his fork towards the kitchen, Dembe says that there is a plate made up for him in the kitchen. Red squeezes the younger man’s shoulder on his way out, not looking at Liz again, until he is back and groaning with pleasure as he takes his seat and digs in, like a man famished.

“Packed and ready to go, Lizzie?” He asks when he takes a moment to pause, sips at his cup of coffee. She looks over to him, tries to school her features, rationalises with herself that he most likely has business elsewhere. Taking her with him would be a hindrance, a danger to them both and she doubts after the Head Hunters disaster that he will be giving her the name of a Blacklister any time soon. He isn’t running from her, she is sure.

“Yeah, I am,” her voice sounds cold, almost sullen, “What time do you expect to leave?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, green eyes raking over her body, assessing her, gaze _heavy_. Earlier into their arrangement, she would have shifted, looked away, rubbed at her scar, not now. Now, she stares right back, jaw stuck out mulishly to his analysis.

“I was thinking around midday, before I leave this evening, does that suit, Dembe?” He inquires, his tone so nonchalant, as if he can’t feel the tension sizzling between them, the electricity burning in the air. She tears her gaze away to look at Dembe.

He nods his head, a frown creasing his brows as he looks over at Reddington, a question lingering in his gaze, hidden behind his closed lips. With a curt nod, the older man stands, collects the dishes and heads back off into the kitchen and this time Liz looks after him.

There are many unspoken things between them now, the cover of darkness not shrouding them with its protection, the numbness of alcohol completely dispersed.

Of course he would shut down, shutter his green eyes until they were as unforgiving as iron, she had expected no less. He is scared, can feel their connection growing and twisting out of his control, hooking under their collarbones, tugging at their sternums, bringing them closer and closer until he simply _can’t handle it_.

And it is truly _terrifying_ , that now she has to leave them, leave the safety of Red and Dembe’s watchful gaze. She had thought, had _hoped_ that her nightmares, the memories that plague her, would have been enough to set aside his fear, to drive him to keep her by his side.

She is wrong.

Taking her leave from the table, thanking Dembe for the meal, she darts up the staircase, makes her way to her room. Her breath is short, panicked gasps, as she thrusts her meagre belongings into her bag, ignoring the tears that prick at her eyes, swallowing back the building fear. She doesn’t want to be alone, wants to rush to Reddington now, have his solid presence chase away the demons that linger and lurk at the corners of her vision. Instead, she bites down on her tongue, curls up on her bed, and smothers the sobs of distress torn from her wounded chest. With each breath her broken ribs _scream_ in protest. The gashes carved into her flesh throb, curled in on herself as she is.

And when she calms, when her breathing evens and no one has come to find her, she mutely stands, wipes at her eyes. Her pillow is stained with tears, tears that have been choked back and forced down when Red and Dembe have found her fighting the rising panic, only moments away from collapse. She is yet to break in front of them, even when Red speaks to her so softly, assures her that she is _okay_ , offers her solace and comfort, her spine is _steel_ , unwavering. He looks at her in those long moments, gnawing on the inside of his lips, as if he knows she won’t be able to hold it together for much longer, that she will soon shatter.

She knows this too.

The bathroom light paints her skin a sickly white, pronounces the red rims of her eyes, the puffiness of her cheeks. She runs the tap and cups the water in still trembling hands, splashes it over her face with a gasp. It’s icy, brutal, numbs her fingers as it runs through them. Leaning on the porcelain sink, she stares back at the mirror, runs a finger over her lips, smiles as she thinks of the night before, a brief respite from the terror and panic, the _fear_. Until she feels its familiar weight settling on her shoulders once more, the bruises lashed across the delicate skin of her neck, turning yellow and green now, mock her.

Liz feels as if she has been cracked open, her chest cleaved apart and her organs ripped out, haphazardly shoved back in, squeezed and bruised. Her limbs are constantly heavy, her bones aching with what feels a bit like misery, and a bit like emptiness, as if the marrow within has been sucked clean. And she knows that if she had been left alone, had declined Red’s offer and had gone home, as brittle as she is now, she surely would have splintered and cracked long ago. She clings to him like a lifeline, has found that his presence calms her, his soft tones and kind eyes. The fleeting touches he bestows upon her, a hand on the small of her back, his fingers gliding across the skin of her forearm, his shoulder and thigh pressed to hers as they stand side by side.

(His tongue in her mouth and her heart in his hands.)

It brings warmth to the chill of her skin, makes her want to crawl inside his chest so she is _safe_. And she knows it isn’t healthy, this connection and relationship they are forging, that they may combust, but Liz has tripped and stumbled her way into his orbit, and is now unable, _unwilling_ , to leave. She is entwined with a criminal mastermind, a seething ball of fury and danger, and she _won’t_ leave him.

She thinks that perhaps this is the reason Red is distancing himself, that he is frightened of what may become of her, of what she may _become_ with his influence. He is a manipulative man, both on purpose and accidentally. She knows that he has twisted her to take part in this vigilante cause, bribed her with the names on the Blacklist, and tempted her need for _justice_ until she agreed. Yes, he did that, entangled them irreversibly, except she knows, _knows_ , he never meant for her, for them, to craft the bond they now share, knows that he had cared for her in the beginning, but not this _much_.

The knock on her door has her stepping back from the mirror, wiping roughly at her face with a towel. She needs to pull herself together, to be _strong_ and fierce, unshakable. And when she steps out of the bathroom, she feels stronger, seeing Reddington standing by her bed, looking down at the tangled white sheets, the quilt crumpled and rising across the mattress like a mountain range. His eyes drift over to her, a soft smile tugging at his lips, and Liz hopes that he’ll ask her to stay, that he’ll save her from herself, from the monsters that have taken up residence in her skull.

He doesn’t.

He is more interested in saving her from himself.

“Ready to go?” He asks her softly. She nods her head, trying to smile, even though it feels wobbly and unstable.

And that’s what she is, and will be, without him nearby; unstable.

She scoops her bag off the bed, wonders how long she had lain upon the sheets, weeping and wild, for time to pass so quickly, for him to be now leading the way downstairs. Swallowing, she follows, grits her teeth when she thinks of her dreary, empty apartment, the walls still covered in information about Reddington, now only a mere _skeleton_ of the man. Panic skulks at the edges of her vision, prowling along the thin walls of her veins until the opportune moment. His eyes are on her, so she schools her features as best as she can.

She knows she doesn’t have him fooled.

Her eyes drift around their surroundings as they move through the house, heading to the front door. Liz feels nostalgia building through her system already, great scaffolds of melancholy structuring her ribcage, walls of wistfulness lining her lungs. How Reddington jumps from house to house, hotel to hotel, never sinking roots into the earth, never building a _home_ , she will never know. The memories she has built in this manor, no matter the grizzly circumstances, makes her chest twinge. Cold mornings with coffee, curled before the hearth, Reddington and Dembe’s comforting presence around her. Gentle music flowing through the house, each vinyl specifically chosen by Red and no one else, easing them through their evenings. The patchwork quilt, soft with wear, draped over her as she slept. Red’s soft smile when she woke up, sitting across from her, keeping her safe, keeping watch.

The door creaks as Dembe opens it and she manages to smile at him, even if she feels as if she is being walked to the firing squad, to her end, a warm palm pressed to her back the entire way. Red is behind her, the crisp wind whipping at their clothes as they make their way outside, snow crunching beneath their weight. She can’t bring herself to look at him, swallows back the words, and stops herself from pleading.

She doesn’t want to leave.

Except she has to, because he is Raymond Reddington, Concierge of Crime, an eccentric murder with kindness in his eyes and lips that taste like _spring_ and she is Elizabeth Keen, orphan, fledgling FBI agent that is swerving dangerously, _insanely_ , close to ruining her career entirely, her _life_.

She had almost died because of him.

And he knows it.

She doesn’t want to _leave_.

But he won’t let her stay.

Of course he opens the car door, the vehicle already alive, engine rumbling through metal. He slides in after her and everything seems so _loud_ , the rustle of his suit, his deep and steady breaths. She looks over to him, isn’t surprised when his green gaze stares back. Her throat is dry and she folds her trembling hands in her lap, noticing the way his eyes dart down to the movement, the twitch in his cheek.

“Where are you going?”

She doesn’t want to seem feeble, weak, but Liz is _scared_ , the emptiness of her apartment, the deathly quiet, the mere thought of it enough to make her muscles quiver in dread. The nightmares will be savage, the silence of her room after she wakes, unnerving. She’ll survive though, she’ll grit her teeth and sweat until her body shakes with the cold, but she will survive, because that is what he would do.

“I’ll be back soon, Lizzie,” he replies, not an answer but a comfort all the same. Offering him a wobbly smile, she looks back out the window, watches as the scenery blurs past. She doesn’t know where they are, how far they have to travel to her apartment, how far they are from the Head Hunters base.

As long as it is a long way, she doesn’t care.

It is silent and uncomfortable and Liz physically restrains herself from wriggling in her seat, anxiety thrumming through every fibre of her being. Red seems to be unaffected, his gaze cool and distant as he stares out the window. He is not gnawing on his lips and there is no twitch beneath his eye, but his fingers are drumming against his thigh.

It is a soft rhythmic movement that Liz takes heart from.

The wheels spin beneath them as the car glides to their destination, and with each street passed, each intersection crossed, Liz attempts to settle the stirrings of fear and apprehension that swelter through her bloodstream. Leaving Red, leaving the safety and company he provides, to see Tom, to _end_ whatever it is she has with Tom, makes her heart stutter and stumble. Her wounds throb with the reminder of when she has been separated from Red, when she was _alone_. It is an irrational thought, illogical, her apartment is _safe_ , and Tom is _harmless_ , but panic still worms through the recesses of her mind.

And then Reddington is standing outside, holding her door open and Liz’s eyes are focussed on the cracked and grey pavement at his feet, the slush of snow squelching beneath polished Italian leather. She heaves her body out of the car, ignores the way his gaze flickers with concern at her slow and pained movements, knowing that it will change nothing. He is steadfast, stubborn, _infuriating_.

She opens the driver’s door, leans in, much to Dembe’s surprise and presses a kiss to his cheek, wishes him goodbye, thanks him for _everything_. He nods his head, offers her a smile, says that he will see her soon and then she is turning away from him, noticing that Red already has her bag slung over his shoulder, is waiting patiently.

He is chewing at his lip now.

They make their way up to her apartment and the silence crawls and itches at her skin, makes her want to _howl_ at him. He is so composed, so steady, even as Liz feels her fear fester to fury. The experiences they have both shared stretch and twist between them, looped and woven like string around and through their hearts, unable to be ignored. And yet, he is so _indifferent_ , so unaffected, it makes Liz feel _weak_ , as if she is being foolish for acknowledging what is so obviously developing between them.

He is so composed, so steady.

Until he isn’t.

“Liz?”

It is loud, stark, echoes down the corridor, and jars her harshly out of her thoughts. Red has tensed behind her, and she hears the distinct shift of the fabric of his suit, knows that he is grabbing for his gun. Instinctively she reaches out to still his hand, the movement, feels the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips. She stares ahead of her, body tingling with adrenaline, startled.

Tom is standing by her door, brows creased and eyes laced with innocent confusion.

“Tom, sorry, I didn’t realise you would be here already,” Liz exclaims shakily, taking a step forward, acutely aware of Reddington’s presence close behind. With trembling fingers, she turns to introduce the two men.

“Tom, this is,” she stumbles over his name, “R-red, he is a... close friend of mine.”

The younger man gives Reddington a shy smile, says it is nice to meet him and offers a hand, which Red clasps without hesitation. He doesn’t say a word, his gaze unnerving; twitch jumping to life as his eyes wander over Tom’s face. The tension is palpable and it makes Liz fumble for her keys and hurriedly open her door. The two men are still behind her, she can feel the confusion radiating off of Tom and, disturbingly, the raw power and fury of Reddington.

“Sorry, Tom, will you give us a moment?” She asks, thankful when they _finally_ break contact and Red follows her inside. No matter the circumstances, he still palms off his fedora when he passes the threshold, cradles it in his hands as he waits for her.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Tom answers hesitantly, and Liz is quickly shutting the door and turning to Red with an apology on the tip of her tongue.

“I am not leaving you here with him,” he says, cutting her off, tone deadly grave, expression serious. Everything about his posture, the high tilt of his chin, feet planted and steady on the floor, chest pushed out, gives Liz the impression that he is spoiling for a fight. His eyes are dark, molten with anger.

Her mouth clicks shut, fury pooling in the bottom of her stomach, matching his own. She grits her teeth, takes a step towards him, not entirely sure where she should focus her anger, this rage that has formed from the fear that had bubbled through her body. He doesn’t falter, just stares back at her, eyes hard as steel, unflinching.

“You don’t get to make that decision. This is my _home_ ,” she snaps at him, feeling something savage and feral unfurl in her chest. He had been ready to _abandon_ her, to leave her because of his fear, distance himself. There is no reason for him to stay now, for him to _control_ her.

“I am not leaving you with him,” he growls, and this jealousy of his is pitiful and Liz takes a step forward, is toe to toe with him now, unwilling to back down, because Tom is an innocent man, a _teacher_ , and Reddington had almost pulled a gun on him.

“You don’t own me, Reddington,” she spits.

He gives no reaction, merely a tilt of his head, and Liz thinks it may drive her to insanity. This calm, this _authority_ , he projects, it makes her feel inferior. He had made the decision for her to leave, had swept her away from the manor, from _him_ , without a thought of anything but the danger he puts her in. Not caring about the danger she is to herself.

He has no _right_.

“You need to leave.”

“ _Lizzie_ ,” he implores, his voice stern, unwavering. She shakes her head at him, jaw aching from the way it is clenched, her eyes watering with unshed tears, because it isn’t _fair_ for him to be treating her this way, they had been so _good_ over the past weeks.

“No, you need to _leave_ , Reddington. I’m not yours to control, I’m not a puppet that you get to toy with when it suits you. ”

And with that sentence seething between them, he gives a curt nod, palms his fedora onto his head and strides towards the door, not saying another word. He is moving like it pains him, like each step is agony, but Liz doesn’t call him back; not when he opens the door to reveal Tom leaning against the far wall, not when he makes his way down the corridor. Soon he is gone, hidden behind the steel doors of the elevator.

He doesn’t look back.

“I’m sorry about that,” Liz begins as Tom makes his way inside, his expression still so confused and uncertain.

“Who was that, Liz?” he asks and he sounds dejected, eyes downcast, and Liz feels guilt well inside her, flushing out the rage towards Reddington, her body sagging with the lack of adrenaline. She takes a step towards him, grabs at his hand, noticing that his skin is much cooler than Red’s, almost icy.

She takes a deep breath, anxious.

“It isn’t what it looks like, Tom,” she begins, “But, I’m sorry, I can’t do this anymore.”

Justifying her relationship with Reddington, _explaining_ , it is something she will not do. Yes, Tom may be in pain, upset, but she owes him no information. Even she doesn’t entirely understand the goings on between her and Red. So, her decision is final, her spine as rigid as her resolve. He will get _nothing_.

“I don’t understand,” he whispers, sounding broken, “Did I do something wrong?”

It is with a sigh that she shakes her head because she _hates_ this. Tom is a good man, he is sweet and he is funny, in all senses he is _perfect_ , the chance for a normal life, a loving family. And Reddington, _Reddington_ , he is everything that Tom is not, he is wild and dangerous, he is _dark_ and murderous, and he is all that Liz _wants_.

“No, Tom, it isn’t that,” she breathes, “It is just so _unbelievably_ complicated.”

“And this man, Red, he doesn’t have anything to do with it?” He questions and his tone leads Liz to believe that whatever her answer, he will not believe her. She hesitates, stumbles over an explanation, because she doesn’t want to _lie_ to him.

“Look, Tom I –,”

Before she can say more to him, hopefully soothe him, he has rounded on her, eyes burning with fury. She takes a step back, unsettled by his obvious rage. The thought that Reddington has left the building, that she is now _alone_ , fleetingly blazes through her mind and panic swells. The lights flicker around her, her vision blurring, and for a moment she is back in the Head Hunter’s lair, helpless and bleeding. Dropping his hand, she takes a wary step back.

“Who is _he_?” He snarls at her and Liz frowns, feeling shaken and uncertain. Her weapon is in her bag, dumped by the kitchen bench by Red, behind Tom. She feels her fingers itch, her muscles tensing.

“What are you talking about?” She asks and her voice is strident.

He scoffs, looks at her with such disdain, and suddenly he isn’t _Tom_. His features are mangled and twisted with rage, his hands are shaking, movements jerky and angered. Blue eyes are icy, cold as they glare at her from behind his glasses.

“Are you fucking him? Are you cheating on me, Liz?” He snaps, “He is obviously a wealthy man, is that all you care about?”

All she can do is stare at him, feeling waves of nausea flood and flow through her body. She takes a shaky breath through the onslaught, rubs at her scar as he demands answers, her heart thundering in her chest. When he shoves a finger at her throat, inches away from the bruised and tender skin she flinches back. She is in shock, feels vulnerable, and is desperately clawing at courage, at strength.

“Where did you get those bruises? Let him choke you while he fucked you, just for some money? Is that it? You guys got a daddy daughter thing going on?”

The crude accusation is enough to make her _snap_ and with a growl she yanks open the door with such force that it bounces on its hinges. It startles Tom, his jaw snapping shut, eyes burning ferociously. Liz matches him, narrowing her eyes, a snarl building in her throat.

“ _Get out_.”

It is silent for a time, heavy breathing and roaring adrenaline; her fingertips are trembling, muscles quivering with emotion. Eventually, he does, he brushes past her with a scowl and slams the door, causing the picture frames to rattle on the walls. And as quickly as he goes, Liz feels the last reserves of her energy drain, her body withering with emotion and exhaustion. She slides down the wall, wounds _screaming_ as she heaves for breath. Sobs wrack her; great shuddering sobs that make her ribs ache. Her mobile digs uncomfortably into her side, a reminder that she could call Reddington, that he would come for her immediately, she is certain of it.

But she doesn’t because Liz wants to be _strong_ , and independent. She wants to be the fierce woman that Sam had raised her to be.

So, she heaves her body from the floor, rubs at her eyes until she sees galaxies, dragging herself to her dingy bathroom and running the shower as hot as she can bear it. Fussing with her bandages, wincing at the way her wounds pull and stretch with her awkward movements, she ignores the steady teardrops that roll down her cheeks and tumble into the maelstrom of water whirling down the drain. And when she steps under the spray, she has to remind herself that there will be no one there to drag her out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was also mad difficult to write, but hopefully you enjoyed it and are looking forward to the next chapter because I sure am. Thank you for reading!


	18. The Strings To My Heart Start To Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Just the other day, you walked into my life,  
> And now every time I see you look away, I feel a change,  
> My body starts to shift and shape,  
> The strings to my heart start to break, and everybody looks the same.” – I Feel Free, Bliss n Eso

She didn’t expect him to come back, for him to be standing in front of her door, face grave with concern. He doesn’t step over the threshold; even though she is holding the door wide open for him. Green eyes scour her body, as if searching for injury, harm, the twitch in his cheek jumping to life. She notices that his fedora is clutched in his hands, that he is dressed in the same suit, and _stinking_ of cigarette smoke. He hates cigarettes, hates the size, the smell, the _taste_. He prefers cigars. They’re thicker, richer, sophisticated. They are _him_.

And he’d gone and bought _cigarettes_.

She looks at him further, the pink tinge of his cheeks, the light dusting of melting snow on his broad shoulders. He had been outside, for what seems like a significant amount of time, _smoking cigarettes_. Her eyebrows crease as she inspects him, his face passive under the scrutiny. And when she realises what he has done, the dedication he seems to have for her, she sighs, gives him a small smile.

He never left.

Just like that the rage she had felt earlier, the fury that had flowed through her, made her grit her teeth and heat flood her body, evaporates, disperses into the stale air of her apartment, because he had _waited_ for her, had waited until Tom had left, until she had calmed down. She had been furious and unstable, shocked and dazed, had snapped and snarled like a wounded animal, because she had been frightened, _terrified_ of leaving him, of dealing with Tom, of being _alone_.

But he had stayed.

“Come in,” she invites, “You must be freezing.”

The scent, the distinct smell left by tobacco that seeps into hair and clothes alike, wafts over her as he steps past and it smells of _Sam_ and _home_. She can’t help the smile that creeps over her face, the memories that flood her mind. She knew the habit was bad, had pressured Sam to kick the sticks for _years_. It terrified her that one day he may succumb to one of the diseases that are these days so heavily advertised. She was terrified that his addiction would kill him.

She had never feared a car accident.

Her eyes are drawn back to Red, standing in the middle of her apartment, looking to where she is positioned by the door, her feet glued to the floor. Standing in her apartment, dressed in his three piece suit, he seems as if he just _belongs_ , makes the space entirely his own. It causes her to smile, her hair still dripping wet, that though he is the Concierge of Crime, _Raymond Reddington_ , he flawlessly fits into her life. It is domestic, tamed.

“How did it going with Tom?” He asks and his voice is rough, his tongue rolling around his mouth, sliding along his bottom lip. The way he shifts on his feet is so uncharacteristically nervous it causes Liz to take a step towards him, wanting to comfort, reassure. There is a fear that lurks in the air and for once, it isn’t seeping from Liz, staining the atmosphere.

Red had been scared.

“Not well,” she admits with a huff, shaking her head. Red’s reaction had been extreme, without reason, startling in its intensity. Except, when Liz peers deeper into the reasoning, her profiler training ingrained into her bones, it is so astoundingly _obvious_. He lives a life full of spies, assassins, murderers, professional liars, so of course, he is wary of strangers, suspicious until proven wrong. He hadn’t been jealous, not of Tom.

“But, it doesn’t matter anymore,” she continues, judging his reaction, receiving absolutely _nothing_ in return, “It is over between us.”

A nod of the head is his reply, something dark flickering over his features as silence reigns. For a time, Liz isn’t sure what to do; this is the stillest he has ever been in her apartment. The cupboards and fridge are normally being rifled through by now, his voice scolding her from within the pantry as he scans the measly amount of food it contains. Steam would usually be pouring from the kettle spout as he makes them coffee, tea, whatever he desires, and Liz would watch him through it all, awed by his confidence.

Now, it seems he is rooted to the spot, which is terrifying because Raymond Reddington is _rootless_. He roams through countries, passes from apartment to house to hotel, never settling, always moving. Reddington is a hurricane of cigar smoke and scotch, of three piece suits and devilish tendencies, who not only has ripped through Liz’s apartment, but her entire _being_ without remorse.

“Coffee?” She asks to ease the awkwardness they have found themselves in. For a moment she expects him to decline, the way he tilts his head, bites at his lip, raging a war within. And then he nods, making Liz wonder if she will be doing all the talking for the rest of the evening.

She makes her way to the kitchen, hoping she has some long-life milk stored in her pantry and that she can add it to Red’s coffee without him noticing. When he takes a seat at her kitchen bench, she winces, pantry door creaking as she opens it.

There is no milk, only a few spices, flour, and a bag of potatoes that have started to sprout. She glances around frantically, wanting to keep him here as long as possible, feeling steady and sure in his presence. It is as if she is back at college, scraping through on the bare minimum some weeks, surviving only on booze and two minute noodles. And _that_ is when she spots the bottle of rum, dusty and old, on the top shelf. Smiling, she snags it and with a flourish turns to Red, his gaze that had been steady on her back now locked with her own.

“What about something a bit warmer?” She suggests playfully, hoping to revert them back to the easy banter that had flowed between them during her stay, before Tom, before the _kiss_. “It’s not scotch I know, but I’m sure you’ll manage.”

The corners of his mouth twitch, tug his lips into a smile, small and warm, just for _her_. Decision made, she pulls out two glasses, not the crystal tumblers that Reddington owns, but plain glasses that hold the dark liquid just as well. The smell is pungent and Liz winces as she takes her first sip, but the heat slides down her throat and settles in her belly comfortably.

She pulls up a chair beside him, nostrils still stinging from the acrid smoke that clings to him. He is staring ahead, sipping at his drink as if it doesn’t affect him and Liz _can’t stand_ his silence. Reaching across, she grabs his hand, drags it into her lap, just so that she can hold on, so he can’t leave.

Green eyes dart over to her, a question in their depths. When he is graced with only a small smile in return, he squeezes her hand, doesn’t let go. Neither of them apologises for their earlier actions, perhaps to proud, to set in their ways. Something mutual settles between them though, an understanding that passes through their joined hands. Peace mends the rift that had torn between them.

Still holding his hand, his hand that is so incredibly warm, dusted with golden hair and freckles, she leads him over to her couch. There are several conversations she needs to have with him, questions that she will needle him with, dragging answers from him until the early hours of the morning, when the city below is shimmering back to life under the rays of the sun. For now, the sun is still high in the sky, their rums cradled in their hands, his attention entirely focussed on her, their thighs pressed together. Taking a sip of her drink, she gathers her courage, shrouds herself with it like it is armour, meets his gaze and says,

“You can’t leave me again.”

Becoming so attached to him, growing reliant on him, she couldn’t have predicted. The idea of it would have been laughable a few months ago, when her father was alive, when her career was about to take off in the direction she so desired. And then Sam had died, her career had spiralled into her abyss of grief, she’d found the bank statements, _Bill Kershaw_ , a compelling reason to investigate. Stumbling so blindly into danger, chasing down criminals alone, it was surprising that she hadn’t been killed. She had staggered into the world of Raymond Reddington, naive and innocent.

Now, the thought of being without him, without his protection, his company, is terrifying. Reddington, through dubious means admittedly, dragged her out of the pit of despair she had been drowning in after Sam’s death, offered her distractions, a _motive_. She’d begun to discover that there was more to him than being an international criminal, hunted by Governments, loitering in shadows. He has made a family, people he loves and cares about, fiercely protects, and somehow, she had fallen into that category. She felt honoured, _loved_.

Looking at him now, the way he is gnawing on the inside of his cheek, she thinks that she wouldn’t have it any other way. Fighting with him, wrestling with the wit of his mind, is a necessary pain she will have to go through, is _prepared_ to go through, because he _will_ fight her, push her away as much as he possibly can.

“You do not belong in my world, Elizabeth,” he replies eventually, his tone broking no argument. His hand is still in hers, as if he can’t bring himself to break the contact, even as he threatens to walk away. The gruff tone of his voice, so deep and serious, it makes her pause for a moment, hopelessness rising within.

“It’s too late for that,” she says firmly, releasing his hand, “You made sure of that when you and I met in that warehouse.”

“You found me,” he growls in his defence, as if it is _her_ fault, as if she had been the one tempting him. She scoffs at him, he who had been a dog with a bone, relentless, persistent. It is frustrating, these evasive ways he has perfected.

“You could have let me go.”

He takes a long time to answer, and Liz actually believes that he may be considering her words, perhaps seeing reason. His hands are clasped before him, legs crossed, and his glass of rum by his feet, half finished. There is no tick in his cheek, his features completely expressionless.

“What are you going to do if Tom comes back, Lizzie?” He diverts and Liz almost shatters a molar in frustration.

“That is completely unrelated,” she snarls in reply, feeling her anger building. He still sits beside her, impassive, unconcerned by the electricity that must surely be sparking off of her skin. His breaths are steady, slow, even as hers grow in their intensity. She just needs his _word_ that he won’t up and disappear, that he won’t abandon her.

He hasn’t given it yet, and that terrifies her.

And in true Reddington fashion, as she falls into one of her stony silences, he launches into an anecdote, lays out the puzzle pieces for Liz to assemble herself, with fumbling fingers as she listens to metaphors and cloaked warnings. It is with a sigh that she concedes, leans back into the couch, shifting so they are not touching.

“Only a few years ago, I knew a woman,” he begins, his voice soft, remorseful, “She was _soft_ , and _kind_ , beautiful beyond comprehension.”

With bated breath she watches as his features morph into grief, his eyes rimmed with red, his bottom lip catching between his teeth. He is looking down at his hands now, not folded but clutched together. Voice catching as he continues on, Liz retrains herself from reaching out to him, focuses her attention entirely on the words that struggle and stumble from between his lips.

“It was so _easy_ to fall in love with her,” he says with a quiet laugh, ruefully shaking his head, as if he had been foolish. “Her name was Josephine.”

There was a time when Liz thinks she would have interrupted him, forced a question between them, disrupting his story, something that he so carefully crafts. Now, she sits quietly, can’t bring herself to look away from him, the anguish clearly tattooed into his expression, even though he doesn’t meet her eyes, green gazing across the living room, lost in memory.

“A marriage had been arranged, one that required Josephine to marry a burgeoning psychopath with a long and troubling history of violence. It helped to build alliances for her family, to make money.”

Liz takes a deep breath, lets it rush out between parted lips as she studies Red, takes heed of his words. He still has not looked at her.

“One evening, while I waited in a restaurant for Josephine to arrive, I received a call. You see, Lizzie, we were still seeing each other. This man she was with, this _brute_... she didn’t love him, she never could have,” his voice is breaking more frequently now, clogged with emotion, “And when I answered it was her.”

He stops, composes himself. The set of his shoulders, the muscles of his back, are riddled with torment, and Liz knows where the story is going now. Her heart aches, it throbs within her chest, each flood of blood plagued with sympathy.

“She was _terrified_ ,” he whispers, “And I got there as soon as I could, but I was too late. He’d beaten her so badly, so _horrifically_ , that she’s now confined to a wheelchair, unable to move, unable to speak, merely a husk of the beautiful creature she had once been.”

It is silent, it is cold, everything in her apartment seeming duller now, grim and dreary. Red is staring ahead, reaching down and swallowing the rest of his rum. Liz has no words, can offer no comfort, but she manages to slide herself closer, press against him. She gives him the chance to move away, to decline her sympathy. And when he doesn’t, when he remains still, she grabs his hand once more, rubs circles over his palm with her thumb.

Finally, he turns to her, the jade of his eyes burning with emotion, searing into her own. Again she can feel the raw power radiating off of him, the intimidation that comes with the name Raymond Reddington. She has no doubt that the man who hurt Josephine is no more, his body rotted and long gone. The heartache is still there, evident in the way he swallows past the emotion lodged in his throat.

“If you need me to protect you from Tom, Lizzie, you only have to ask,” he implores, his grip on her hand tightening. The sincerity in his voice, in his eyes is so real and honest.

Tom had scared her; Liz will admit that the crazed way he had reacted to the mention of Red, the instantaneous jealousy had startled her. She had been unprepared for his fury, the blaze of his eyes as he looked upon her. He’d acted like a wild animal when caged, cornered, he’d been dangerous, snapping and snarling like animals do when frightened.

“I’ll admit that the things Tom said to me earlier were hurtful,” she says with a sigh, turning to face him fully, tucking a leg under her body, “But he would never hurt me. I think he was embarrassed, hurt.”

He studies her for a long moment, his brows creased, before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to her forehead. She leans into the contact, feeling her eyes slip shut at his tenderness.

“Just say the word, Lizzie,” he whispers against her skin, and she nods her head, whispers a promise in return. It is comfortable, sitting here beneath the soft press of his lips, their hands joined and breathing steady.

And though she never got a direct answer, she knows all the same that in some way, she will always have him. He will always be there for her. With a breath she pulls away from him, offers him a smile as she scoops up his empty glass from the ground and stands. Exhaustion is plainly written over his features, emotional torment having taken its toll, as he looks up at her. And Liz knows that if they are to get through the rest of the afternoon, through the rest of the _evening_ , they will need more alcohol.

They will need more rum.

She comes back from the kitchen with glasses that are filled to the brim, to find Reddington making himself at home, sorting through her assortment of DVD’s. Suddenly everything feels right in the world and she lets a laugh escape her as she places the glass with a dull thud on the coffee table. He turns to look at her, with a glint in his eye and she _knows_ he is about to tease her, his jaw working with uncontained mirth.

“I would have thought you would have a more refined selection of films, Lizzie.”

Peering over his form, plonked where it is in front of the DVD player, she sees an assortment of romantic comedies, all trashy movies that make her laugh with how corny they are and make her cry with the typical romantic tropes. She ignores the way Red is grinning at her, the heaviness from earlier seem to have evaporated away.

“Really, this is abominable,” he says with mock distaste, poking at one of the plastic covers as it if carries diseases, something filthy and cheap.

“Yes, well, we can’t all have such _sophisticated_ tastes,” she haughtily remarks, even as she approaches him, scanning over the cases he has spread across the floor. And for his cheek, she finishes with, “And since it is my apartment, we watch the movie _I_ choose.”

When he looks back up at her, an eyebrow cocked, she narrows her eyes, _dares_ him to argue. She can barely hide her smirk when he glances down at the mess he has made and gives one jerky nod of his head, releasing a sigh. He stands from the floor and makes his way over to the couch, getting comfortable as Lizzie pores over her options.

And because he doesn’t complain further, she picks the least painful movie she can find.

Which she regrets around thirty minutes later when she realises that watching a movie with Raymond Reddington is one of the most agonising activities she has ever participated in.

They are sitting close together, hands clasped around their drinks, cheeks tinging red as the alcohol leaches into their bloodstreams. Reddington is _constantly_ asking questions, questions that in the end would spoil the movie, and when Liz doesn’t reply, when she _refuses_ to answer, he begins to make the most ridiculous speculations. And when she doesn’t react to those, he critiques the actors, compares them to his idols in Hollywood and _God_ help her if there is someone he knows on screen, which is remarkably often.

It is only when he falls silent for an uncharacteristically long time that she notices he is asleep, head tilted to the side, lips parted, golden eyelashes dusting over his cheeks. His skin is still tinged by the rum, a soft red, unsurprising since his body is like a furnace beside her. Liz huffs and rolls her eyes, because he is _missing_ the most _important_ part of the entire film, the answer to all his incessant questions. So, she jabs him in the side of the ribs with her elbow, hoping to wake him.

And he does, with a start, eyes opening at the same time as he reaches for his gun, holstered at his side, muscles poised for attack. Liz shoots backwards along the couch, putting distance between them, and the movement causes his head to swivel her way. His eyes are wide and wild, breathing harsh as he stares at Liz, before settling down, looking away from her, clearing his throat.

“Are you okay?”

Liz thinks for a moment that if she had woken Tom, if he had been the one on the couch beside her instead of Reddington, there wouldn’t have been even the _chance_ that he would have pulled a weapon on her. He would have woken up with a snort or a laugh, eyelids heavy as he focused back on the television screen. Instead, adrenaline is thrumming through her, a buzz that hasn’t yet quieted, and Red is looking at her as if he may as well have shot her.

She moves back to him without hesitation, presses her body along his, is so close that she thinks she may be able to hear his heart racing, the thunder of racehorses hidden within his chest cavity. Reaching over him, she unclips his holster, places it and the gun on the coffee table, his eyes following her every movement. The characters on the TV prattle on, neither of them noticing.

“I’ll be gentler next time,” she whispers, resting her head on his shoulder, trying to stem the panic that is still flowing through him, his muscles tense beneath the soft wool of his suit. He is looking at her, his eyes softening, the hard pressed line of his lips lessening. Liz wants to be accommodating for him, believes it is important to make compromises because of course his reactions are so severe, his life a constant war between fight or flight.

There is no more said on the topic and they don’t bother to finish the movie, Liz turning it off when Red suggests ordering takeout. Calmness has settled over them, even if Liz notices the occasional jumpy movement Reddington makes, it’s obvious that he is attempting to relax. She wonders if he has always been this wired, that she is merely better at reading him, had gotten to know him so well that she is able to judge his moods better now, or whether there is specifically something that has gotten under his skin.

He organises the food and soon after they are sitting back at the breakfast bench, a pizza between them and their glasses of rum. Liz hadn’t realised how hungry she was until Red lifted the cardboard lid, releasing a puff of steam and revealing the golden and stringy cheese topping. And she doesn’t realise how she is practically inhaling her slices until Red starts to laugh at her, his eyes crinkling as he raises a slice to his parted lips.

“I’m glad it’s just the two of us, Lizzie,” he says with a smile, “If anyone else were here, they would have thought I’d starved you.”

She grins back at him before taking another bite.

Watching him eat with his hands is fascinating, though Liz wouldn’t be able to tell anyone why. He is so delicate, so precise, managing to keep his suit pristine, even as great stringy globs of cheese dangle precariously from the crust and base. She smiles, realising that he can wield a slice of pizza as well as he can a gun.

When they finish, Liz wiping her hands on her jeans and Reddington wiping his on a tea-towel, he stands, picking up his fedora and looking at her expectantly. She follows suit, a frown creasing her brow as she trails after him to the door, tongue working inside of her mouth as he turns to face her once more.

“You’re welcome to stay,” she invites, thumb briefly skimming of her scar, because she feels awkward and nervous asking this of him, even after everything that has happened between them. It is different; this is _her_ apartment, her home.

“I don’t believe that is the best idea, Lizzie,” he says with a gracious smile, reaching for the door knob, his hand stopping short as she says,

“I won’t have nightmares if you stay here with me.”

His eyes skitter to the door, to his hand inches away from the brass handle, left cheek twitching as he assesses his options, weighs them so carefully in his mind. The pink of his tongue darts between his lips as he goes to reply.

“That doesn’t mean I won’t, Lizzie,” he rumbles, and she fleetingly thinks to his reaction earlier, contemplates what he would be like in the throe of a nightmare, the danger he may represent, and dismisses it just as quickly. If he needs her, she will be there.

“It’s got to be better than waking up alone, doesn’t it?”

And she knows she has him by the way he looks away, looks towards the window where the lights of Washington twinkle. The way he looks away from the door, his hand dropping back to hang by his side and back to _her_. He sighs, concedes, indicates for her to lead the way, because the night has crept on, the city below quieting with sleep, and Liz is already fighting a yawn. By the way his eyes sparkle at her, he has noticed.

Having Reddington in her bedroom is nothing new, due to his tendency to completely disregard boundaries. He has rifled through her wardrobe before, looking for warmer clothes for herself, ignoring her protests and indignation, until finding the perfect article of clothing and presenting it to her like a gift. She always takes them from him, always puts them on.

But the prospect of sleeping together, not caused by a traumatic event or excessive alcohol, is nerve wracking. Even Reddington looks uncomfortable, fiddling with his tie, studying her movements out of the corner of his eye. Liz changes quickly, and then slips into her side of the bed, suddenly feeling guilty for asking him to stay over, knowing there is nothing she can offer him for sleep wear.

It doesn’t seem to bother him as he divests his jacket and vest, sliding in beside her with a dress shirt and his trousers on. The lamp on her side of the bed bathes his face in light, even as it casts her own in shadow. He is smiling at her, only inches away, though there is something serious in his eyes, lurking in between the flecks of gold. It looks as if he is asking for consent, permission, so Liz slowly nods her head, offers him a small smile in return.

He snakes his arm around her waist, pulls her close until their bodies touch entirely. Liz is tucked snugly in his embrace, one hand resting over his heart, stealing the warmth from his skin. She smirks when he hisses as she creeps one of her feet up the legs of his trousers and presses her chilled flesh to his. And to remedy her cruel intentions, ignoring the way he huffs at her in annoyance, she pulls herself up until she is level with him, inches away from his lips, breathing the same air. He falls completely still.

And when she kisses him, it is slow and languid, it isn’t their first kiss, it isn’t desperate and wanting, it isn’t suppressed emotions. This kiss is understanding, this kiss is compromise, it is gentle tongues and playful nips. The kiss doesn’t build and it doesn’t fade, it is steady and constant, so _unlike_ them. Red’s hand is on her waist, thumb caressing the gap of skin between her tank and her shorts; he is not pushing boundaries, testing limits. Her fingers are linked around the back of his neck, fingers carding through the short hairs, gentle, soft, not demanding and incessant.

When they break apart, only to press their foreheads together, for Red to brush a lock of Liz’s hair behind her ear, their eyelids are already drooping shut. Sleep drags and pulls at them, until they spill into a dark sleep and dreamless sleep, their hold on each other falling lax.

And when Liz wakes in the morning, it is to a sleep mussed Red carding his finger through her hair, over her scalp. It is still dark out and she grumbles at him, wriggling further into his chest, pressing her face to the exposed skin, snuffling. She feels the deep rumble of laughter ripple up his throat, feels as it is exhaled across the top of her head.

“I need to get up, Lizzie,” he whispers, voice rough and husky with sleep.

Liz realises how she is splayed across him, pinning him to the mattress. Mumbling she slides off the warmth and softness of Raymond Reddington, and onto the distressingly cold side of the bed, the sheets tangling around her. She hears as he pads out of the room, the bathroom light illuminating the hallway before the door clicks closed and plunges the apartment back into darkness.

She tries to stay awake for him, she truly does, but the next time her eyes open, light is spilling into her room and Red is beside her, steadily watching, a smile creeping over his features when her eyes flutter open. Either he moved closer to her when he got back into bed, or she had found her way back to him. Their limbs are tangled, legs woven together like vines, arms wrapped around each other’s waist and back. Liz can feel his chest rise with each breath, in time with her own. When he presses a kiss to her temple, she smiles.

“Good morning,” she says quietly, craning her neck to kiss just shy of his mouth, lips brushing over the corner. Pulling back to look at him, his eyes are glinting. He looks well rested, relaxed.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he murmurs, just as quietly, “But I borrowed your phone to contact Dembe, he should be over in a few minutes or so.”

“Why?” Liz asks with a frown, which deepens when he quirks a brow at her, before pointedly looking down at himself, though his body is hidden by the quilt.

“To get another suit, Lizzie.”

It is his turn to frown as she snorts with laughter. He is so ridiculously predictable.

Playfully she shoves at him, before rolling out of bed, searching her bedroom floor for the robe she had chucked in the corner, so many weeks ago. Spying it lying in a heap, she snatches it off the floor, ignoring the creases and pulls it around her, turning back to face Red. He is sitting up now, shirt rumpled, a sleepy smile spread across his face as he stares at her. Stubble graces his jaw line, glints in the lowlight of the morning.

“What are you doing?” And his voice is returning to normal, rumbling through her quiet apartment like thunder. The quilt and sheets rustle around him as he slides out from beneath them, curling his bare feet into the carpet as he stands.

“We can’t just expect Dembe to come into my bedroom while we’re in bed,” she replies, huffing at him in exasperation as she tugs on a pair of socks, ignoring the disdainful look his shoots the brightly coloured articles of clothing.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” he quips casually, brushing past her as there is a knock at her front door. She scoffs, following after him and smiling brightly at Dembe as Reddington opens the door for him. He is holding a suit in hand; well, Liz presumes it is a suit, hidden inside the specialised covering.

With words of gratitude Reddington relieves Dembe, and disappears back into Liz’s room, leaving the pair alone. Liz apologises, says that she would have offered him a coffee, but her pantry is barren.

“It is alright, Elizabeth,” he replies with a soft smile, eyes drifting to her bedroom door, “Raymond has a meeting soon, so we must not delay.”

She bites her tongue, doesn’t ask where he is going, is sure that she doesn’t want to know the specifics. There is a reason he hasn’t told her, though it rankles at her. But running the risk of ruining the peaceful evening she and Reddington had shared doesn’t seem entirely worth pursuing it. She knows who he is, what he does. There isn’t the possibility that he will change now, not after twenty years, not after what he has had to do to survive. Accepting it, accepting _him_ is the only option she has.

When Red remerges, he looks crisp, sharp, though not cleanly shaven, Liz realising that she will need to buy new razors as well as a reasonable amount of food. The suit is a deep navy, fitted perfectly, a brown belt and shoes to match. He is smiling at her, even as regret bleeds into his eyes. Leaning down, he presses a kiss to her cheek.

“I’ll be home soon, Lizzie.”

She just nods her head, the fear already creeping back into her blood, the very sinew and bone that makes up her body, her very fragile body. Her eyes slide closed when he pulls her close, kisses her forehead. A raspy breath escapes her.

And then he is turning, _leaving_ , not noticing the way she tilts her head, the way resolve smoulders in the depths of her eyes. He doesn’t notice as she crosses her arm, rubs at her scar, skates her tongue across her bottom lip, but Dembe does and he is smirking before Raymond has turned back around, expression astonished by Liz’s demand.

“I want to come with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so freaking sorry it took me so long, but I loved writing this chapter and hope you enjoyed it! Next one should be up soon, I hope!


	19. An Audience With The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I was granted an audience in the devils maze,  
> I sat by his throne and we talked for days,  
> He told me about his ancient battles with arch-angels,  
> He told me loneliness was the torture most painful.” – An Audience With The Devil, The Hilltop Hoods

“This isn’t a meeting for another Blacklister, Lizzie,” Reddington declares, his voice grave, but not ashamed. Neither of them will pretend that he is anything other than what he is. “These are business meetings.”

Liz doesn’t understand how this has become her life, where she _willingly_ participates in crime, in the dark and murky depths of the underworld, a notorious criminal standing by her side, leading her towards monsters like the darkest of knights. She wonders if she still has the chance to turn back, to return to pursuing her career, return to a life where she commutes an hour or so to get to Quantico, drives home in the dark and eats whatever she can scrounge in her fridge. Returning to a life where she is trapped in a mundane and mediocre existence, bored and willing to settle for a safety that Tom had been able to supply, a steady income and the potential for a family.

“I know it’s not,” she says, keeping her voice firm, certain, arms still crossed, ignoring the flicker of amusement that passes of Dembe’s features as he observes the scene. “I still want you to take me.”

He is gnawing on the inside of his cheek now, gaze steady on her, and she remains still under his assessment, even as the silence grows around them. Her breath doesn’t quicken, she doesn’t shift on her feet. As far as their relationship has come, it is now time for him to treat her as an equal to show some faith in the loyalty that she has grown to have for him. So she waits and with a nod of his head he concedes, moving deeper into her apartment to take a seat as she returns to her bedroom, foraging around the floor for clothing.

When she emerges, dressed for the chilled wind lashing at her windows, he still looks displeased, fiddling with the fedora in his hands. She offers him a smile all the same, albeit a small one, feeling slightly uneasy that he seems so disappointed. As a profiler, Liz thinks that this opportunity to watch Red in his element, wielding his intellect to procure the best of deals, to analyse how he _thinks_ , interacts with his associates, is something she is not willing to give up. But as a _person_ , she can understand his discontent, knows that he fears for her safety, made that abundantly clear last night.

But Liz keeps pushing.

And Red keeps pushing back.

Because that’s what they do.

“Let’s go,” she breathes and follows the two men out of the door, locking her apartment behind her, the key snicking loudly in the silence.

The weather wars around them, a flurry of snow kicked up around their bodies as they step out of the building. Glinting in the low light of the sun is Red’s sleek sedan, dusted with white, awaiting them, a perfect sanctuary from the cold that sinks into the skin, through their clothes. Red opens the door for her, and she slides across the leather with a smile of thanks. He follows suit, and then Dembe is pulling the vehicle away from the curb, car rumbling down the empty street.

Neither of them notices the red apple resting in the gutter, discarded after a single bite, the flesh of it bright as blood against the icy snow.

“So,” Liz speaks to the back of Dembe’s head, not daring to look over at Red, even as she tests the waters, “who is your client?”

Red shifts in his seat, turns so he faces her, head tilted to the side, fedora askew. Her gaze is drawn back to him. It’s nice that the bags that weigh so heavy beneath his eyes seem lighter, not dragging at his expression, exhaustion tugging at his body. They had slept curled together, limbs tangled, sharing warmth, comfort, staving off the nightmares that plague them, the dreams that come to them as surely as age does. His eyes are still soft when they look at her, a smile tugging at his lips, even if Liz believes it to be unbidden.

“First, we have to make a trade in weaponry,” he explains, gauging her reaction, eyes roaming her face, “and then, dabble in a bit of money laundering. It’s all rather exciting, don’t you think, Lizzie?”

She ignores the quip, just nods and turns back to look out the window, tamping down her smile as she feels his fingers fumble for hers, entwining them. Stealing a glance back at him, he is staring out the windscreen, eyes entirely focussed ahead.

It feels like an apology, the way his thumb brushes so gently over her skin.

After they have passed through Lizzie’s neighbourhood, left it far behind, Dembe turns them down a road leading to a heavily industrialised area. It makes Liz wonder how often Red conducts business in a shabby warehouse or abandoned factory, his suit and manner appearing so out of place, so bright and eccentric against the pale concrete walls.

The weather is still bleak around them as they pull up to one of the buildings, the walls cracking and crumbling with age. As the snow whisks through the sky, dashes along the road, it chases away the possibility of anyone straying across them, _normal_ people staying home, or working indoors, keeping _warm_.

Great iron gates part as the sedan rolls into the driveway, passing the barbed fences and surveillance cameras, to the warehouse, large enough to be an aircraft hangar, and dilapidated enough to deflect unwanted attention. Liz can feel herself tensing, knows that Red would be well aware of it, their hands still clutched together. There is adrenaline racing through her, heightening her senses. She tries to settle, relax, takes a shaky breath and releases it through clenched teeth because she _asked_ for this. Red’s thumb rubs once more along her hand before the car draws to a stop and he is stepping out into the open.

There are men already surrounding them, one of them greeting Reddington with a warm hug, his voice booming in the quiet. He is a short man, with a large gut and balding hair. His meaty hands are like spades as he heartily claps Red on the back and his eyes are beady, glinting and bright. The other men mull around the car as pleasantries are exchanged, hands not far from their hips, weapons holstered and loaded. Liz faintly brushes her fingertips beneath the hem of her jumper, wishing for her own gun desperately and only coming across the bandages plastered over her wounds. A tremble of fear ripples up her spine.

Dembe moves around to the back of the vehicle as Liz steps out into the warehouse, pulling her jacket closer around her, searching for Red, searching for a sense of security, wanting his gaze on her, assuring her. Instead, he is chatting with his associate and moving to where Dembe is standing, entirely immersed in his element. The trunk of the car clicks open and the other men, keeping their distance from Red, begin to heave cases, of what she can only assume is weaponry, out of the trunk. They scrape on the concrete, loud, echoing off the walls and it draws the leader’s attention, his gaze drifting to the cases and then to Liz.

“Ah, Raymond, who is this fine young lady?” He remarks, taking a step closer to Liz, leering at her, eyes raking her body in appraisal. She glances over to Red, notices the smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, the shadow that passes over his features, as he replies,

“Harry, this is my partner, Kara, we’ve recently started working together.”

A frown creases Harry’s brow as he turns back to Reddington, all but dismissing Liz’s presence, finding her unworthy of his attention. The other men have finished unpacking the car, however, and their eyes are now drawn to her, a fresh piece of meat in the butcher’s shop of the criminal underworld. She straightens her spine, stands taller, thankful that Dembe is looming behind her, fierce and protective. Indignation, _ire_ , bleeds into the blue of her irises.

“Thought you’d sworn off partners after that debacle with Garrick?” Harry comments suspiciously, tension thickening the air. Liz notices that the other men begin to shift, their expressions darkening. Behind her, Dembe does the same; she can hear the rustle of his clothes as he moves to grasp at his weapon.

And then Red laughs, a harsh sound that cuts through the palpable suspense, makes Liz jolt at his dismissive demeanour, as if he is toying with death, with the anxiety that is so surely building around them, the distrust that is riddled through Harry’s narrowed gaze. All eyes flicker to him and he claps a hand on Harry’s shoulder and gestures to Liz, a smirk gracing his features.

“She has a few more... _positive_ attributes than dear Anslo, don’t you think?” he quips, tone lewd and smile positively wolfish, suggestive.

Harry laughs uproariously and nodding his head turns away from her, back to the cases on the ground. Red does the same, but before he turns his attention back to his client, his sale, he meets Liz’s gaze and his expression is dark, _fierce_ , laced with self-loathing, and she thinks that perhaps this is the reason he didn’t want her to come, wanted to protect her not only physically but mentally.

She feels filthy, objectified, a shudder running through her as the men stare, ogle, at Reddington’s play thing, viewed as a woman that tags along for the money and is thrust onto a bed whenever the Concierge of Crime desires her.

It isn’t a situation she is unused to. She remembers her college and high school days with stunning clarity as the boys would shout or whisper crude remarks to many of the girls, including her, in the hallways, in class, their feelings of entitlement stretching far and wide. Their eyes would roam over her body and the others girls’, when they would sneak into the change rooms, only to be punished with a stern talking to and a detention.

So she swallows back her disgust, throws a disdainful glance around the room, the other men looking away from her wrathful gaze hurriedly, and then focuses back on Reddington. At least now the threat to her life has lessened, hands dropping from holsters as Red’s words reverberated around them. These men wouldn’t dare question her presence again, particularly not with Reddington in the room.

The lids of the cases are thrust open to reveal a startling array of weapons; glinting guns all set in particular foam moulds to protect the merchandise while being shipped. Liz looks at them all, the semi-automatics, the pistols, rifles, shotguns, and wonders how many men, women and children, will be maimed, slaughtered, by the weapons in this sale. She wonders how many will be innocent bystanders, how many will be fellow criminals, wonders if the families will ever find solace in their loved ones deaths, or if one day the victim will merely fail to return home, a missing persons case that turns cold.

Each gun is picked up, checked over, scoured for faults, any foul-play, and the entire time Red watches impassively, uncaring, so sure of himself and the products he is supplying. To have such unwavering confidence, such certainty, leaves Liz in awe. Feeling her own fingers beginning to tremble she lifts them to her wrist, rubs at her scar, tries to soothe the doubt that has settled beneath her skin. Reddington’s gaze flickers over to her, a flash of concern like lightening over a green meadow dancing through the depths of his eyes when he notices her anxious tendency.

He begins negotiations for a price immediately, even though Harry is yet to check over every weapon, even though it may arouse suspicion.

It is a marvel the way he bargains, steady and calm, unyielding even when Harry barters for a cheaper price, Red is steadfast, though completely outnumbered and sure to be gunned down if the deal turns sour. His eyes are shuttered, steel covered in moss, the green so bright, and yet so _blank_. And as Liz knows, his voice demands attention, his stories having the ability to manipulate; he is able to twist Harry’s offers, shape and mould them like putty until they best suit him, his words just as sharp and cutting as glass. He is smart, unbelievably clever, and Liz can’t help but feel something like pride rise in her chest as she watches him.

“That is my final offer, Harry,” Red states, his voice growing stern, his gaze not once flickering from his client, who accepts the offer with a disgruntled nod.

It is then, with a flurry of movement, that the cases are packed up, lids snapped shut, and a briefcase full of cash handed over. After the necessary farewells, Red ushers her gently into the car and Dembe drives them from the warehouse, the building now completely deserted, to sit unused until the next dealing.

Liz has managed to stop worrying the skin of her wrist, has settled the panic that had been sliding through her bloodstream. Red is sitting silent beside her, bottom lip caught between his teeth, tormenting the tender flesh. He notices when Liz can’t seem to drag her eyes away, and he smiles at her. It feels safer here, in the car, with his body so close to hers and no leering men dirtying her with their gazes. She can sense the guilt that is itching at his skin though, a man as gentlemanly, though ridiculously flirtatious, as he, making such bawdy comments in front of strangers, obviously causing her discomfort.

“I understand, Red.”

She knows that he catches on immediately, doesn’t miss the small breath that gusts out of him, the minute sag of his body as her words reach him, soothe the shame that cuts at him with jagged edges. He doesn’t reply, but Liz knows that it is enough.

“Raymond,” Dembe rumbles from the front seat, passing a phone over to the older man in the back, never taking his eyes of the slippery road, covered in slush. There is a choked quality to his tone, one that sets Liz on edge immediately.

Liz watches as Red squints at the screen, gauges his reaction from the message that is displayed, though she cannot read it herself. He has tilted the screen away from her, the blue light bathing his face in light. The twitch beneath his left eye jumps, and anxiety curls and coils deep in her gut once more. Noticing the way he bites at his lip in frustration, she looks away, and when he begins dialing a number in the mobile, listens intently into the conversation, the wintry scenery flashing by.

“Yes, Susie, it’s me,” he begins; tone one of business, “I won’t be able to make it to our meeting today, my apologies. Dembe will make contact soon to arrange another. Thank you.”

He hangs up the phone and a blustery wind whips around the car as he opens the window and drops the device onto the road; it shatters on the bitumen behind them. Liz stares, baffled, but he doesn’t seem to notice, even as he turns to her. His expression is dark, dangerous, and she feels a tug of apprehension at her insides, unease seeping into her bloodstream.

“What’s going on?” She questions, eyes searching his face.

“We’re going to meet someone,” he replies, and Liz is pinned beneath the weight of his gaze, the severity in his voice, “You must not leave the car, Lizzie, under any circumstances.”

She can feel her brows creasing, has questions and indignations tripping over her tongue, ready to spill into the confines of the car. The way he seems to implore to her, causes hesitation, makes her snap her jaw shut. Instead, she nods her head, swallowing when he looks visibly relieved, as if he had been fearful that she would refuse him.

From then on the drive is silent, Reddington seemingly lost deep in thought. Even Dembe seems concerned; an energy radiating off him that leaves Liz unsettled, nervous. The weather outside has not lessened; snowflakes still whip through the harsh wind, the cloud cover almost impenetrable by sun. Liz tries to pay attention to the outside world and not the way Red drums his fingers on his thigh, a sure sign of unease.

When the sea seemingly materialises over the crest of the road, Liz swallows back a gasp. She hadn’t know they were so close to the ocean, hadn’t even known what direction they were travelling. The waves spew forth, great driving beasts with mains of white, racing up the sand and lapping at the rocks, the only force that could rival Raymond Reddington for power.

Perhaps he had known that when he’d pursued a life at sea, so long ago.

Of course the area is abandoned, empty, the weather driving the hordes away, the tourism season having died down months ago, dormant until the snows have been blown away and the sun is sneaking high into the sky once more. They pull into a parking lot, looking out at the raging water below, the seagulls caught in the wind, squawking their displeasure.

There is no shelter, nowhere to stand where the wind will not lash at them. She hopes the meeting is short, that Red won’t have to stand in the elements for too long.

A car pulls up further down the lot, just as dark and sleek as the one Liz has promised to remain in. Stepping out of it is an older man, taller than Red and dressed in a suit, a maroon scarf wrapped around his neck, warding off the chill of the afternoon. His hairline is receding, wispy grey hairs dancing in the wind. From where Liz sits she can make out the canyons of time etched into his face, rifts of stress carved through his skin. He carries himself with authority, waits by his vehicle, hands clasped before him. There is a confidence that clings to him, as if he isn’t about to meet with the notorious Concierge of Crime.

Liz watches as Red steps out into the cold, as does Dembe, neither of them glancing back at her as they make their way towards the other car. She knows the windows are tinted, no one can see her here, tucked away in the warmth of the sedan. Watching as the two men approach the other, Red hunches his shoulders against the wind, glances up at the gloomy sky, Liz rubs incessantly at her scar.

It is easy to tell that Reddington is agitated, even though she can’t see his face, back turned to her as it is. He is leaning away from the other man, occasionally rocking his weight slightly, head tilted to the side. She notices when he shakes his head, a sharp jerky movement that belies the calmness he must surely be aiming for. He clasps his hands together behind his back, preventing them from clenching at his sides. The other man is obscured by Dembe’s larger frame, the only glimpse Liz catches of him is when he turns away and slides back into his vehicle, maroon scarf whipping in the wind.

Red and Dembe don’t make their way back to the sedan, back to Liz, until the other car has disappeared down the road. Only then do they begin striding towards her, their movements seemingly jagged and hurried. Red’s expression tugs at Liz’s sternum, sees fear there, bleeding into the green. She doesn’t know how he manages to make eye contact with her through the tinted glass.

When they slide into their respective seats, Dembe has started the ignition and is reversing the vehicle before Red has slammed his door shut. The tyres spin as they accelerate away and Liz finds herself staring wide-eyed at Red, who is so visibly shaken. Once more his fingers are drumming a relentless pattern, his breaths heavy as he stares ahead. There is an electrical current slithering through the air, setting each of their nerve endings on fire, enhancing their survival instincts, pumping adrenaline into their weary hearts.

“Who was that?” Liz timidly asks, thankful that Red manages to look her way, lock gazes with her. She notices that Dembe glances at her in the rear-view mirror before darting away, back onto the road.

“His name is Alan Fitch,” Red says, his voice gravelly, rough, “I’m sorry Lizzie, but we have to leave.”

“Leave?” She asks, confused, shaking her head once, frowning at him. He is still looking at her, his gaze serious enough that she feels a shiver down her spine. When he reaches for her hand, she takes it without question.

“Yes, leave,” he replies, “Lizzie, we need to flee the country immediately.”

Protests jump to her lips, sit there as if on a conveyor belt, all logical and _rational_ , waiting their turn to be spewed forth in response. Washington is her _home_ , her career is here, or what’s left of it is, her apartment, her _entire life_. Leaving wasn’t something she could comprehend, as steady a person as she had once been before she and Raymond Reddington had collided in a storm of sparks and cigar smoke. Liz liked _planning_ , she liked organisation and she liked knowing that there was a place to go.

“I need three days.”

He blinks at her, looking as astounded as she feels.

Three days would be long enough, long enough to pack her measly possessions. It would give her enough time to _think_ , to contemplate all that she is leaving behind, for her to stare at the four or five cardboard boxes that are her life and to recognise all the possible things she may be gaining. Looking at him now, at the way he is clutching at her hand, three days is plenty.

“Just give me three days, Red, and I’ll come with you.”

“I can give you two,” he compromises, _of course_ he compromises and Liz lets him, gives him a shaky nod of her head. And then he is releasing her hand, accepting another cell that Dembe has procured and is dialling another number, tone one of authority when he speaks to whoever it is on the other line. Liz, briefly, has a moment to wonder how he remembers all of the numbers until Dembe is speaking to her, voice filled with urgency.

“I’ll drop you back at your apartment, Elizabeth,” he states, swerving down a street, throttling the accelerator. “Pack your things as fast as you can, and you must not answer the door for anyone except Raymond or myself.”

She has never seen Dembe so rattled, his speech hurried, almost frantic. There is a pressure rising within her, something fearful that plucks at her chest uncomfortable. Her wounds begin to throb, as if in warning.

“Is there someone coming for me, Dembe?”

He doesn’t reply, his eyes flicking to meet her gaze in the rear-view mirror, before jumping away, his grip on the steering wheel shifting. Reddington momentarily falls silent, biting at his cheek, before continuing to demand and order down the phone.

It is enough of an answer as Liz needs.

When they arrive back at her apartment, Red escorts her up the lift and to her door, saying very little and standing extremely close. The tension surrounding them, the panic, is suffocating and Liz can feel her chest tightening, her muscles being roped and bunched together with apprehension. Her hands are shaking when she sticks her key in the lock, shoving the door open as soon as it snicks open.

Red doesn’t pass the threshold, just stares at her as she turns back to face him. He looks imposing, ferocious, the way he is standing. It makes her realise that he is gearing up for a fight, readying himself for something dangerous, deadly, readying himself for whatever was coming after her, _them_. His eyes are dark, shifting to that demonic shade she had noticed when he had come for her, in a flurry of blood and _hatred_.

“You heard what Dembe said,” he reminds her, his expression unchanging as she nods her head.

“I remember,” she whispers, hoping to reassure him, to assuage the angst he is so obviously feeling.

And then he is turning, walking back down the corridor.

He doesn’t look back this time either.

Liz closes the door, looks around her apartment, at the boxes of Sam’s that she never unpacked, resting by the window. Night is beginning to close in around the city, night life waking below. Her body is practically buzzing with energy, so she makes her way to her shower, strips and flicks on the faucets with sharp movements. The scorching water that batters relentlessly at her skin manages to shred away some of the fear that had been building like plaque over her flesh.

And when she is finished, she haphazardly throws her toiletries into a bag, giving her bathroom one last looking before flicking off the light and closing the door. She moves into her bedroom, tosses the bag by the corner her bed, still only wrapped in a towel. Clothes are strewn across the floor, the surface of her dresser empty except for a candle, dusty and unused.

Creeping beneath the covers of her bed, not bothering to change the dressings over her wounds, soaked through as they are, she decides that she will deal with it all in the morning, shoving her clothes in a plastic bag and leaving her apartment will take only moments. She has a feeling that she will needed to be well rested, alert, for whatever Reddington has planned, for their flight from America.

Before sleep claims her, she puts her gun on her bedside table.

And she dreams, vicious and bloody dreams, unrelenting. She dreams of drowning in her own blood, and she dreams of Reddington drowning in his and she _just can’t save him_. She dreams of Sam, of the car crash, the pain he must have been in, the mess of metal that became his tomb. She dreams of the Head Hunters most of all, her captors eyes glinting maliciously as he cuts and carves at her flesh, digs deeper and _deeper_ until she is screaming herself awake, body slathered with sweat.

That wasn’t a dream, it was _never_ a dream.

With shaky limbs she tumbles out of her bed, throws on some clothing and snatches both her gun and car keys off the table, heading to the garage, leaving for Reddington.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed the chapter, apologies it took so long. The last few episodes have, to put it bluntly, fucked me up, so writing was a bit of challenge. Anywhoo, the next one looks like it’s going to be pretty big, and hopefully rather good, so it should be up soon. (Except it’s a Red chapter and after writing so many from Liz’s point of view, it could take me a while to get back into the swing of things.) Thank you again for all your support.


	20. I’m Twisted Out Of Shape Asking For More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I played for the Queen,  
> She put her scar upon my skin,  
> I’m twisted out of shape asking for more,  
> I’m twisted out of shape knocking at your door, your door” – Come Out Of The Woods, Matthew & The Atlas.

The ocean _roars_. It thunders towards the shore, splintering into spray against the sea-worn chunks of granite that rise like ominous towers from the sand. A raging beast, ancient and relentless, licking and lapping at cliffs until they are worn to rubble, ground to nothing. The wind races the tide, birds screeching and cawing as they are whisked into the whistling fury. Flakes of snow and grains of sand are caught in gusts that whip through the empty car park, forming a miniature cyclone.

Red remembers what it had been like, caught up in a storm such as this one, riding the torrent and fury of the ocean. He remembers the raw power, the electric atmosphere that had hummed and buzzed around the crew as they hurried from station to station, readying the ship for the battle against nature that was surely about to commence. The mountainous clouds had rolled ever closer. He remembers the _crack_ of thunder, as if the heavens above had been split open. Lightening had lit up the ocean, the water heaving and roiling below them, the groans of each beast blending into an onslaught of sound, the inky blackness around them seemingly coming alive. The rain and spray had lashed at the decks, spewing forth from both sea and sky. He remembers the stillness, the _quiet_ , the next morning, finding a peace in it that he had been searching for ever since. Strolling towards the other vehicle and away from his own, a sense of peace is near impossible to find, a storm festering and brewing within his veins instead.

Lizzie is hidden from sight in the car behind them, safe for now from the man across from them and his all knowing gaze. Red thinks he can feel her gaze on his back. The anxious energy that had seeped from her and poured into the cabin of the sedan, he now carries with him, the abrupt _demand_ for a meeting has left him unsettled, the message only signed with an ominous A. It had been enough for Red to understand though, had known instantly what it had meant, the impending doom that crackled around him like the storm above. And he is acutely aware that Lizzie has fed off his nerves, may even now be worrying at the scarred skin of her wrist.

Alan Fitch is already outside his vehicle, expression grave, maroon scarf caught in the currents of wind that bluster around them. It has been _decades_ since Raymond has seen him, evident from the way time has been sketched into his skin, an aged face with familiar eyes staring back at him. He rolls his tongue around his mouth, the gears of his mind already clunking into action, analysing and assessing.

“Hello Ray, it’s been, what? Twenty years?”

There isn’t time to reflect, to consider all that had transpired during that era, the grief, the slaughter, the _trauma_ , how these two men have carved their paths with bloodshed, one in the light and the other in darkness. One had been condemned to a life of crime, and the other to a life of an Assistant Director of National Intelligence. Bitterness leaks onto the back of Red’s tongue.

“What’s this about, Alan?” disposing of pleasantries, feeling each and every of his survival instincts screaming, _howling_ , at him to flee, to _run_.

He’d been running for twenty years, it would be too hard to stop now.

“Where’s the Fulcrum, Ray?” His voice is as steady and calm as it has always been. Laced with authority, discipline, his tone is too heavy to be carried away by the raging wind.

 _The Fulcrum_.

“I thought we had a deal,” Red replies, brushing away the question, feigning nonchalance. Dembe is a solid presence beside him, unmoving, hand resting on his holstered weapon. “You don’t come after me and I won’t release its contents.”

“We did,” Fitch answers, with a nod of his head, scratching lightly at his cheek before returning his gaze to Red. There is something uncomfortable that flashes through his deep sunken eyes, something wary. Alan is unnerved.

Awareness seeps into him of how exposed they are, the buildings surrounding them, all of them capable of housing a sniper. A finger could be hovering above a trigger, ready to send metal wrenching through the air and piercing into his skull, his chest. Shifting slightly on his feet, he gnaws at the inside of his cheek, thankful that the _damn twitch_ beneath his eye is yet to come to life.

“Then what’s changed?”

With all the resolve and discipline Red can muster, he stops himself from turning to face his car at Fitch’s next words, feeling the threat ringing through them, down into his bones. It is a reflex now, to search for her gaze, to make sure that she is _safe_ , unharmed. Instead, he stares ahead, feeling the skin below his left eye jumping alive. His heart is a roaring tempo in his chest.

“Masha Rostova.”

And before he can retaliate, threaten, before he can affirm that if Fitch or his colleagues dare to _touch_ Lizzie, the Fulcrum, the entirety of it, will be released, Fitch is speaking once more.

“Peter wants the girl.”

Red doesn’t ask why.

He already _knows_.

“He claims that she may very well be your weakness, Ray,” Alan comments, “That you may be willing to work a trade if she is in our possession.”

“If any harm comes to Elizabeth, the Fulcrum will be released,” Red all but growls, feeling Dembe shift beside him, so acute to the emotions that are now raging through Raymond, the fury, the fear.

If Peter gets his hands on Lizzie, he’ll kill her, a trade will mean nothing.

“If you release the Fulcrum, we will kill both of you, Ray.”

“If I give you the Fulcrum, you’ll kill us anyway.”

And dying for Lizzie wouldn’t be the worst way to go.

But Lizzie dying isn’t an option.

His tongue works around his mouth, catches and snags on the back of his teeth as he feel his options sinking into oblivion, cold sharp fear piercing his flesh. Feeling cornered, caged, like a wild, feral animal snapping at iron and causing injury during the process, he waits for Alan to speak, to offer an alternative, an _option_.

“I’m here to _warn_ you, Ray,” he speaks, finally, his tone placating, if only slightly infuriated. He is an old man now, the weather beating at his worn skin and weary bones. He is _tired_. “My associates believe you’re bluffing. I am not willing to take that risk. Flee with the girl and go underground, Ray.”

“Why?” Questions Red, searching for an answer even as Alan turns away from him, faces the sedan. He cracks open the door and slides into safety, warmth, a shelter from the elements.

“Because I’ve always liked you, Ray,” he throws over his shoulder, and then the door is snapping shut and the vehicle is pulling away, leaving he and Dembe standing together, waiting until it disappears from sight.

And when it does, when the silver rims and sleek black body have vanished behind a corner, they hurry back to the car, an energy thrumming between them, an understanding of what is to come next solidifying in their veins, passing through the air. Dembe will organise travel, safe houses, and Red will organise Lizzie. His eyes are rooted to the window of her seat, trying to make out her faint outline through the tinted glass.

She is, predictably, where he left her, eyes wide and staring as he slides along the upholstery and closes the door behind him, Dembe already directing the car back onto the streets. There is a twitchiness to her movements, something sharp and jagged, that alerts Red to the fact that she has picked up on the tension, _of course she has_. Her profiler mind, so quick to evaluate and analyse, would have taken in the scene, come to a conclusion on her own.

When she asks her question, when her curiosity gets the best of her and her desire to _know_ is overwhelming, he answers, aware of how choked and rough his voice sounds, aware of how she notices it, her brows furrowing. She bites at her lip when he asks her to leave, to flee the country with him. He can see that there are more questions dancing along her tongue, brightening the blue hue of her eyes. It is almost enough to make him smile, her insatiable inquisitiveness.

Her fingers are _steady_ in his grip, even when he is so obviously shaken, and she _compromises_ with him, seemingly without thought. It leaves him motionless, blank for a moment.

All he can manage is a blink.

But three days would be too long, it would be tempting fate. If she hadn’t have asked, if she hadn’t even _agreed_ , they would be heading for an airstrip immediately, as of now, even if she kicked and screamed, beat and berated him. There is no telling when Peter will come after her, how much warning Alan had actually provided.

So he makes a compromise of his own.

And then he is organising, planning, setting in motions a series of events, a contingency plan, which he had never wished to use. The Concierge of Crime persona is like a second skin, the command in his voice unwavering, unforgiving. His tactician mind whirls to life, develops issues and finds solutions. He is distantly aware of Lizzie and Dembe murmuring to each other, but it is when she utters, a sentence fuelled with caution and apprehension, he stutters into silence.

“Is there someone coming for me, Dembe?”

An entire organisation, a Clandestine Government, will be hounding her across the globe in days, possibly _hours_ , many calling for her blood. Red swallows back the fear, the all-consuming terror, as the past hunts them both, a past he remembers and one she has no recollection of, sees only smoke and fire, and feels only pain and panic, the distorted memories of a four year old. When she glances over at him, her parted lips pressing closed at his abrupt silence, he knows that she has found her answer, even if neither he nor Dembe are willing to tell her.

Walking her back to her apartment, exceedingly aware of how close he is standing to her, feeling her warmth, smelling the jasmine that wafts from her brown locks, Red scans the corridors, enters the elevator first, hand hovering by his weapon. When they reach her door, when he stands by the threshold and looks at her, the way her head is tilted slightly, chin stuck out in resilience, her eyes burning with _fight_ , the tight fist of fear wrenching his chest cavity apart eases, if only slightly.

Lizzie is _strong_.

She says goodbye, won’t answer the door for anyone except him or Dembe. And then he is walking back away, leaving her to her devices, knowing that Dembe has organised a full security detail, that Baz himself is leading them. He doesn’t turn back, doesn’t look as the door clicks closed. It is reminiscent to only the other day, when Keen had slithered into her apartment, such an obvious threat to Reddington and a sweet innocent teacher to Lizzie.

There had been no other choice but to do as she had wished, to leave her in the company of a man that was paid to spy on her, a man that took advantage of her emotionally, physically. If he had questioned her, refused to leave, if he had confronted Keen, the odds would not have been in his favour. She wouldn’t have believed the notorious criminal over the school teacher. Lizzie had chalked it down to bitter jealousy and nothing else as soon as Red had raised his doubts.

He’d had to put his faith in the man that has so blatantly betrayed him, a killer, a spy, to leave Lizzie unharmed. Keen is employed, Lizzie his target; a source to gain information on _Reddington_ and his empire. So killing her would be a distinct disadvantage, to Keen’s employer and _especially_ to the man himself.

Red had stood out on that street for _hours_ , smoking cigarette after cigarette, even as they burned his throat, the putrid taste turning his appetite, until he simply couldn’t bear waiting any longer. His trigger finger had _itched_ for his gun as he rode the elevator up to her floor.

And then she had welcomed him back into her home as if she had missed him.

Dembe is, of course, waiting for him in the car, on the phone to Kate, alerting her to the situation. She says that she will be at Reddington’s safe house in the morning with everything that they need. If Red is going underground, Lizzie, Kate and Dembe, will be following him. The solid support they provide him, offering themselves so willingly, is too much, is like nothing that Reddington deserves.

But he is selfish, takes it anyway, hoping that, one day, he may _finally_ be able to repay them.

Tension is thick in the cabin, the silence heavy. Stress thrums beneath his skin, like metal and wire, pulling and tearing within, livewires left exposed, snaking through his system, lashing welts in their wake. It is a raging inferno that consumes his insides, scorching and blazing. His exterior, however, remains untouched, is only an emotionless facade; an Eden from the battle within. Calmness clings to him, so typical of the Concierge of Crime, just steady breaths and tranquil eyes.

And with all this anxious energy slithering and twisting through his body, it is of no surprise that his survival instincts, heightened by the two decades of running, of _surviving_ , alert him to an intruder in his hotel room when they finally arrive. There is a shift in the atmosphere, a silence that isn’t _silent_ , a silence that is _alive_ and breathing. His weapon is already drawn, aim steady, as Dembe flicks on the living room light.

He is lowering it just as quickly when she turns to look at him, a smirk gracing her features. Auburn curls fall around her shoulders, blood red lipstick adorning her lips. Her eyes glint at him, full of mischief, warm and inviting. There is a glass of wine, half empty, on the coffee table, a bottle beside it. She has been waiting for him.

“How did you find me?” He queries, tucking the gun into the waistband of his trousers, before turning to the kitchen and pouring himself a scotch.

“Mr Vargas,” is her reply, voice sultry and soft in the quiet of the hotel room. Dembe is immediately moving deeper into the suite, mobile already in hand. It will be Vargas’ first and last warning. Red’s location is to _never_ be divulged, unless given consent to do so.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure, Madeline?”

She has stood, is walking towards him, stopping as the tips of their toes bump together, running her fingers up his chest, over his shoulders, to link behind his neck. This isn’t unfamiliar territory. The both of them have shared copious hotel rooms, jumping from country to country, continent to continent, falling into a haze of lust and _sex_. She presses a kiss to his cheek, he can feel her smile against his skin, forces himself to remain still.

“I’m here to remind you about Florence,” she teases, moving only a step back, settling her hands at his lapels.

Madeline Pratt and Raymond Reddington, to beings of such refined tastes, sophisticated demeanours, submerged in a world of sex and violence, of adrenaline and _rush_. She is his match, is witty and deceitful, a woman that has no bounds, no _morals_. A woman of _singular_ talents, who cultivates relationships like sowing seeds, and then exploits them when they are ripe for harvest, rips them from the earth with a smile and a kiss. Her ability to wield her intellect, to manipulate situations, to seduce and mislead all manners of men and women, will forever amuse him, leave him in something like awe, but not quite.

Madeline Pratt is not Lizzie.

Lizzie is as steady and raging as the sea, harsh, untameable, _volatile_ , and then soft, soothing. Lizzie is the quiet of a forest, the safety between the towering trees, the soft moss and singing birds, until she is the storm that harrows the canopies, splitting trunks and sending ancient sentinels crashing to the ground, the resounding boom of thunder splitting the air. Lizzie is _light_ , a solar flare, the burning sun, shining so brightly, so _brilliantly_ that she blinds him with her glory. Lizzie is _home_.

“Ah, Florence,” Red breathes, manages a smile, feeling Madeline’s nails digging into the flesh of his shoulders, into the scars she has mapped with her lips, her fingers.

She had been his lover once.

It is a testament to what was missing in their affair when she doesn’t notice the reluctance in his gaze, the apprehension that seems to hum across his skin. Florence, for him, had never been an option, not really, not after the loss of his family, not after the devastation, the grief, which still, even now, wracks his body. And especially not when he can still taste Lizzie, feel the warmth of her body pressed against him, their limbs entwined during sleep, the way she settles the anguish that clings to him, ingrained into his being.

“There was no need for the reminder,” Red says, tone tender, because he does care for Madeline, truly, has the utmost respect for her. “I’ll meet you there, as discussed.”

He never promised not to lie to her.

“Unfortunately,” he rumbles, brushing his palm over her collarbone, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, “I won’t be able to entertain you tonight.”

“Raymond,” she admonishes, traces a finger over his lapels, presses closer, “Surely there isn’t any business more urgent to you than ours, than _me_.”

There is the tease he is so familiar with, the flirting, the innuendo and banter that makes him grin. She is good company, some of the best, and he isn’t afraid to admit that, when she realises he has spurned her, left her waiting for him in Florence, he will miss her. And if she doesn’t hunt after him with a burning vengeance, as fierce as he knows her to be, he will be severely disappointed.

“I’ll see you in Florence,” he murmurs in reply, her smile fading only slightly until she is pressing her lips to his.

Kissing her is familiar, had once been a pleasure, and now, only a necessity, something to expel suspicion. It is quick, over almost as soon as it began, and then she is heading out the door, hips swaying, looking every bit as seductive as she is supposed to.

Madeline Pratt does not look back.

And Raymond Reddington is reaching for his scotch before the door has even snicked closed.

There is only an hour of quiet, of peaceful silence where he sits, contemplates, a scotch in his hand and a storm of thoughts tearing through his mind, roaring and tumultuous. Dembe is nowhere to be seen, has locked himself away, is tirelessly slaving away, obtaining weapons, money, passports and organising their transport. Red trusts Dembe, has been over this contingency plan with him enough times to be certain that his brother will execute it flawlessly.

The first few days will be agony, _exhausting_. They will be running off of adrenaline highs, their bodies pleading for sleep, for rest. To indulge would be to surrender, to risk capture, death. Red will drag Lizzie through it all if he has to. Experience having been laced through his years, he knows how to run, nowadays believes it to be the _only_ thing he knows. And he knows that after they’ve fled America, hopefully lost their pursuers, and settled in a safe house, waiting for their trail to run cold, stagnancy will clutch at their guts, have them itching to flee, to _keep moving_. It will be what Lizzie will struggle with the most, the need to remain _still_. There will be too much anxious energy for her to burn.

When there is a harsh rapping at the door, Dembe seemingly appears out of thin air, gun clutched in his hand. Red watches as the other man looks through the peephole, slides his own weapon out of its holster. For a moment everything is still, trepidation suspended in the air, and then Dembe is cracking the door open and Lizzie is walking into the suite, eyes downcast.

She looks ill, pale and sickly, her hair tangled, lying flat against her skull. There are dark smudges beneath her eyes, bruised purple rings that testify to her exhaustion. Weariness seems to hang off her body, as if her bones are too heavy, gravity weighing down upon her, dragging her to the ground. When she looks at him, her eyes that normally burn so bright and blue, are red rimmed, dull.

“I can’t sleep,” she rasps, and it sounds as if she is hoarse from screaming.

Something ugly and desperate unfurls in his chest, causes it to _ache_ , when he approaches her and sees the results of the sleepless nights he has brought her, the fear and panic that steals her peace. She doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. So he gently coaxes her forwards, a hand between her shoulder blades, guiding her towards the master bedroom, to a bed where she can rest easy, a place where she knows he is watching over her.

The ache seemingly grows when he feels her sag with relief.

Bed still made, the sheets cold, he pulls the quilt back for her as she stands in the door way, arms crossed, head tilted as she watches him. He offers her a smile when he looks back, and she manages to return one.

“Do you need something to sleep in?”

With a nod of her head he is pulling out a shirt from his dresser, turning back and finding that Lizzie is working her legs free from the confines of her jeans. It amuses him, the way she seems to wriggle to get out of them, a dance where she softly stamps her feet, the material peeling from her so slowly until they are a crumpled mess on the floor and she is standing before him in nothing but her underwear and a shirt.

To be fair, it isn’t the first time.

(But it still leaves him breathless).

She takes the shirt he has offered her and with hesitant, tender movements, she pulls off her jumper, revealing the ropey scars that are courtesy of the Head Hunters. Uncovered, the skin is angry, red, having healed well and still leaving such an ugly mark. Liz is looking at him now, like she usually does when her torso is bared to him, when she is vulnerable and he can see what his mistakes have cost her.

“Do you need help with that?” He asks softly, knowing that the way she has to stretch when applying the ointment and bandages tugs at her already sensitive skin.

“Please,” she says, sitting down on his bed, still in only her underwear.

There is a sense of security, something settling, in having her skin beneath his fingertips, so soft and smooth. He has grown used to taking care of her, has grown used to the way she flinches away from the ointment, so cold on warm skin, the way her breath quickens. She is safe here, beneath his hands, in this room, with both he and Dembe, armed to the teeth and ready to defend.

“Will they ever go away?”

“No.”

For twenty years his memories have plagued him, nightmares coming to him in the night, a bloody haze of screams and bullets. They come to him as sure as the sun rising in the morning, as sure as Red sitting at his bedroom window, watching those rays split the sky. He knows that if she drinks, drinks and drinks until she blacks out into oblivion, she will find a night of peaceful sleep and a morning with a splitting headache. Lizzie deserves better, but there is nothing he can do for her.

“Can I stay the night?” It is a whisper, but pressed as close to her as he is, leaning over her torso, his breath ghosting over her skin, he hears her.

And he has to stop the chuckle that bubbles up in his throat, the preposterous idea that he would decline, say no, send her on her way in the condition she is in. He doesn’t even bother to answer, just flattens the adhesive edges of the bandages with his thumb, his fingers lingering.

“Red, can I stay with you?” There is something more intense in her tone now, insistent, and it causes him to look up at her, to meet the blazing blue inferno of her eyes. Her lips, pink and perfect are parted, her breath whistling between them. They are still for a time, as if frozen in place.

Perhaps it is the fear, the need to _survive_ , to _live_ , that is sizzling around them, sparks causing their skin to ignite with heat. Perhaps it is the way her eyes look molten, or the fresh reminder of how soft her flesh is, that causes him to reach for her, to roughly pull her by her hips across the bed, until they are pressed together. Their breaths are harsh, ripped from their chests and wafting into the air around them. He can feel her hands grasping the front of his shirt, crumpling the soft material in her fists.

And then she is kissing him, hot and desperate, feral almost.

And he is kissing her back just as feverishly.

His hands grip at her waist, tangle in her hair, they roam over her body as he maps her with his fingertips, marking a trail for his tongue. Their breaths are just a little too frantic when they pull apart lips only just touching, eyes closed in bliss. Her hands have slid up his chest, are resting over his thundering heart, nails digging into the skin as if wishing to claim the organ beneath.

Red knows where this is going, is a learned and cultured man in the ways of women and sex. It wasn’t supposed to be this way with Lizzie; it wasn’t supposed to be animalistic and fiery, not the first time anyway. They weren’t supposed to come together in a way so similar to all their other interactions, volatile and untamed. He’d wanted it to be slow, to worship her, to make her feel _loved_ and cared for, to give her everything she deserved and more.

But he can’t stop her.

And he can’t help himself.

She clambers onto him, pushing him further into the bed, bare skin and hungry kisses, wandering fingers and soft moans. They need this; to feel alive and safe, together, in every sense of the word. So he doesn’t resist, pulls her closer, bites at the soft flesh of her skin, kisses at the sharp bone of her clavicle. Her skin is already burning, the heat of her thighs pressing into his waist, seeping through the cotton of his shirt. So he quickly sheds her of her remaining clothing, marvelling at her, the beauty of her body as she pulls back from him.

Her smile makes his heart ache and her eyes hold nebulas. The red flush of her cheeks is enchanting, more so than the haze of any sunset. She is hard planes of muscle and soft curves, swollen lips and tussled hair. He leans up and trails kisses along her slender throat, skates his palms up her spine, feeling each ridge beneath his fingers. A sigh escapes her, ghosts over his cheeks as she leans down to kiss him once more, ravenous.

“Lizzie,” he breathes her name, as she nips and sucks at his neck, skirts the hem of his trousers with her fingertips. They’re burning pieces of shrapnel, almost painful through the pleasure. “We should stop.”

And she has the _gall_ to laugh against his skin, feels her smile sear like a brand into his flesh. There is something wicked about the way she rocks against him, something like triumph in the way she moans quietly as he smothers a guttural groan. But then the triumphant sigh is morphing into an indignant huff as he flips her on to her back. She is wriggling beneath him, abdominal muscles flexing and tensing until he can’t help but lean down and kiss her from naval to inner thigh.

Now isn’t the time for declarations, for things that _should_ be said. No, now is time for them to fumble and tug at their clothing, for Red to be eternally grateful that in her rush she does not divest him of his shirt, that she doesn’t discover the mess of rippled flesh mapping his back. It is time for them to come together with a gasp and a moan, galaxies exploding behind closed eyes, mouths opening in pleasure. For Lizzie to whimper and for Red to bury his face into the soft curve of her neck, already slick with sweat, until he pulls away, waits for her consent.

He is perched over the top of her, his forearms pressed into the mattress, Lizzie flushed beneath him. Her pupils are blown wide, an abyss ringed with blue, staring into his. There are words on the tip of his tongue, ready to fall from between his kiss-swollen lips, but she shakes her head, needs the silence. Legs snaking around his waist, she pulls him closer, and he rocks into her with a shattered groan.

After that, there is only pleasure. Lizzie clings to him, whimpering and gasping, as he drives them into oblivion whilst she holds his hand, matches his rhythm flawlessly, effortlessly. They fall apart together, so incredibly exposed and vulnerable in each other’s presence. His heart is aching as he looks down at her, a smile spreading across her face, eyes still closed, and his name on her lips.

“ _Red_.”

Muscles trembling, he lowers himself next to her, tugs her closer. Brushing a tendril of hair away from her face, he leans in for one last kiss before exhaustion claims her. He doesn’t follow her into the darkness immediately, merely holds her solid weight in his arms, feels worry sliding up his throat at the way he has now, irreversible, tied them together. When she burrows further into his chest, rubs her face into the damp material of his shirt, he can’t help but smile.

He falls asleep with her in his arms, warm and secure.

And when he wakes she is gone.

It is in blurry confusion that he reaches for her in the morning only to grasp cold, lifeless sheets. His eyes crack open, the light momentarily blinding him as it streams in through the windows. In their haste the night before, they hadn’t pulled the blinds. He rolls onto his back, swallows back the regret, the fear and embarrassment one suffers after waking up alone, bites hard at his tongue once before reach for the bedside table, fumbling for a mobile phone.

His only priority is to ensure Lizzie’s safety.

The rest he can deal with later.

After dialling her number with trembling fingers, the phone only rings twice before she answers and he can’t help the sigh of relief that gusts out of him. Sitting up in the bed he presses the phone closer to his ear, opens his mouth to speak, a smile spreading across his face, until a voice crackles through the speaker.

“Sorry Reddington, Liz isn’t available right now,” Keen says jovially, “She’s a bit tied up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so like with Ragged Mile, writing sex scenes is always difficult for me because it is all about balance and emotion, so I hope this one was okay! Anyways, hope you enjoyed the chapter and as always please let me know what you thought!


	21. Frozen Hearts Growing Colder With Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And we were in flames, I needed, I needed you,  
> To run through my veins, like disease, disease,  
> And now we are strange, strangers.” – Winter, Daughter

Watching him sleep is always mesmerising. She has become an expert in studying him in slumber, revels in the opportunity, seeing him so unreserved and at peace. The way the light dances over his features, illuminates them in such a way it leaves her slightly breathless. His lips are almost always parted, his eyes fluttering. He rarely snores, but when he does, it is quiet, soft and sweet, making her grin. She is cocooned in his warmth, pressed close to his chest, his arms loose around her shoulder blades, one leg snaked between hers. Liz has woken by his side many times now, thought that perhaps it would soon lose its novelty.

It hasn’t.

Here right now, wrapped in his arms, she has never seen him sleep so soundly, so still, his breaths steady and slow. It is a stark contrast to the _life_ that had filled him the night before, his muscles shuddering beneath her touch, his lips dragging down the plane of her stomach, hot wet kisses left in their wake. She can recall the way he had clutched at her hand, had skated his palms over her ribcage, how he’d tangled his fingers in her hair. His weight above her had been solid, the heat pouring from him a comfort, his eyes _burning_ with adoration, and Liz had felt at _home_.

Now she stares at the rumpled collar of his shirt, the soft material a stark white against the golden complexion of his throat. There is already a blossoming bruise, a smudge of purple, where his pulse steadily pumps. Just the one mark with the knowledge that she’ll be able to give him plenty more in the future, a secret claim beneath his pristine suits and enigmatic criminal persona that he is hers.

There will be many secrets to keep soon.

Her entire life, identity and all, she assumes will soon become non-existence, wiped clean. There will be a new name, a new routine and no home, no place for her to settle. A life of a fugitive, something she can only guess at, presume from having observed Reddington, the way he glides through the world like a shadow, leaving no imprint. She isn’t aware of the precautions he will put into place, the contingencies he has planned as they flee from a force she has no name for, only the knowledge that they have rattled the great Concierge of Crime.

A tendril of fear snakes through her body, it poisons and infects the peace she has managed to find, curled against Red’s chest. She can feel it spreading, vines coiling around her bones, sapping happiness, roiling and growing inside blossoming flowers of foreboding. And it feels like she is suffocating now, from the heat of his body, from the thoughts that swirl in her mind, foul and laced with dread, Liz grits her teeth, tries to settle back into the bed until the anxiety thrumming in her chest becomes too much.

He hasn’t told her directly who is coming after them, is keeping secrets, his own personal currency that he only dolls out when it pleases him. It sickens her with nerves, because of course she trusts him, but the thought that he can’t tell her, doesn’t want to tell her, is terrifying.

Extricating herself from Red’s grip, she is careful not to wake him, invoking only a snuffle and a rumble until he falls still once more. Looking down at him as she tugs on her jeans and steals one of his dress shirts, she knows that she should wake him, tell him that she needs some air, needs to finishing packing and will be back in the afternoon. It isn’t his fault that she is choking on concern, even if she suspects that had she demanded answers, he would have avoided her questions anyway. It sends a ripple of discord over her already fraying nerves.

She really should wake him.

Except Raymond Reddington barely sleeps, she is well aware of this, having found him awake during ungodly hours of the morning, reading, drinking, eating, doing anything he can to pass the time. If she wakes him, he’ll come with her, insist on breakfast, will have to make sure she is well taken care of while having no regard for his own wellbeing.

So she leaves him to his peaceful slumber, knows that he will call her and she will be able to explain everything later.

Though the sun had been spilling into his room, it is still early in the morning and Dembe is nowhere to be found. She feels ridiculous, sneaking through his hotel room as if it had just been a one night stand, reverting back to her college days, avoiding roommates and unwanted embarrassment. The door clicks open, sounds like a gunshot in the silence, making Liz wince before she is slipping out into the corridor and heading down to her car, planning ahead, her steps determined.

The drive passes in bouts of recollection of the previous night, of the heat of his skin and the passion of his kisses, and forced concentration where she has swerved to the left a little too far or almost sent her car careening through an intersection. Shifting her grip on her steering wheel, she bites down on her tongue, grits her teeth, scrabbles for a way to centre her thoughts, to balance the all consuming terror that lurks at the edges of mind and the euphoria still seems to hum across her skin, causes her to _glow_.

It all seems to somewhat dim when she trudges up to her apartment though, entering into the grim and silent area, regretting that Red’s steady presence isn’t beside her, making a remark of some sort, hurrying through her house tidying the mess. Instead, everything is as she left it, most of her possessions coated in thick furry dust. Almost all motivation flees her, a desire to spin on her heel and return to Red’s warm embrace and leave her pitiful belongings behind takes hold.

She will be making an entirely new life anyway.

But she doesn’t, is too sentimental, would feel as if she was leaving Sam behind, abandoning his memory. There will be a place where she can store them, the few boxes of his and her things, keep them safe and secure. She is sure that Red would be able to organise something for her; he wouldn’t even hesitate.

It turns out that packing her bags is easy going, just a case of discarding what she no longer needs, slowly and methodically emptying her drawers, ridding herself of the life she had once known before the Concierge of Crime had waltzed into it. Her sweats from Quantico she ditches, can barely force herself to look at the logo, to admit that she has fallen into the league of people she had been desperately training to apprehend.

The jumper Aunt June had knitted for her all those years ago she keeps; ugly blue wool and all.

Sun creeping higher into the sky, it becomes harder to ignore the way her stomach rumbles, groans and gnaws at itself in hunger. Acutely aware that there is nothing to eat, cupboards bare and fridge empty like usual, Liz half expects Red to call or break down her door with a promise of Chinese and a stern expression on his features. He wouldn’t care that there isn’t a single restaurant open in the city, as early into the morning as it is; he’d manage to deliver something.

A smile tugs at her lips at the thought.

And quickly forms into a grin when there is a knock at her door.

Springing from where she is crouched by the couch, knees popping and cracking, she makes her way to the door, a playful admonishment on the tip of her tongue that dies as soon as she looks past the threshold. Red isn’t standing with two plastic bags by his side, the smell of Chinese wafting around him. There is no fedora, no three piece suit, no warm smile and bright green eyes.

No, it isn’t Red.

It’s teary blue behind a pair of glasses, it is rough stubble around the jaw line, a man wearing jeans and a faded t-shirt. It’s Tom, a teacher, a _good man_.

And he looks _distraught_.

“Liz,” he croaks, and she quickly steps aside, lets him inside, Red’s warnings lost in her guilt, judgement cloudy, murky, with the onslaught of emotion facing her.

She observes him as he walks by, noticing how stark and out of place he appears, here in her home. With hunched shoulders and defeated expression, he rubs at the back of his neck, keeps his eyes downcast. Waiting for him to talk Liz moves to the kitchen bench, props her hip against it and offers him a wobbly smile.

“I came here to apologise,” he says, looking at her earnestly now, taking a step closer. “Those things I said to you the other day, they weren’t right, Liz, and I am so sorry. It’s just, I saw you with that other man, and I didn’t know how to handle that.”

It is understandable, where he is coming from, Liz believes, but there is no turning back now, no leaving the life she has chosen. Tom would be chewed up and spit out if he were to enter the world she is so willingly striding into. She isn’t willing to drag him down with her, to keep ties, forge a friendship; he doesn’t belong in Red’s empire or anywhere near it. And she no longer wants any part of him in her life.

She chose Red.

God help her.

“You’ve got to understand,” he whispers, taking another step closer, now only inches away, making Liz shift uncomfortably, “that I’d had something planned for us that day, and to have it interrupted was really difficult for me.”

And then he is dropping to one knee before her.

And she so desperately wants to stop him, to prevent the awkwardness, the embarrassment.

She will never say yes.

“Liz,” he says, and there is that trademark smile of his, crooked and sweet, “will you marry me?”

Looking at him now, with his eyes so imploring, so hopeful, how suddenly all sorrow and distress has melted from his features like snow in spring, Liz feels ill. He is clutching a felt box in his hand, a ring inside, sparkling up at her.

It feels like this is the last gasp from a dying man.

“Tom, I am so _sorry_ ,” she says, her voice hoarse. Reaching for his arm to lift him from the floor he flinches away from her, hiding his expression, looking back towards the door.

“I can’t marry you,” Liz continues, searching for his eyes, want to reassure him, because Tom is _Tom_ , innocent and gentle, deserving of someone _wonderful_ and _honest_. “I don’t want to mislead you like that, to agree to something when my heart just isn’t in it.”

“Liz, please,” he pleads, voice cracking, and her heart _aches_ for him, it really does, because she didn’t want it to be this way for him. She never wanted to hurt him.

But all she can do is shake her head, mute, still certain that she can feel Red’s fingertips running down her spine like a brand, his teeth scraping over her collar bone, the way he gasped against her skin as she wrapped her legs around the smooth flesh of his waist.

Tom has turned away from her fully now, his breathing harsh. There is a set to his shoulders that puts her on edge, like an animal poised to strike, lips curling into a snarl, hackles rising. She glances around her apartment, notes that he is blocking her from the only exit, that she left her gun in her car, that she is outweighed physically. Dread clambers through her body, a virus, spreading adrenaline in its wake, driving her heart to race with fear. Red’s words ring in her ear, the warnings, the promises he made her give. So when Tom turns to her, weapon in hand, there is no surprise, no shock, just the knowledge that when Red finds her body, he’ll be heartbroken.

“That isn’t the answer I wanted, Liz,” Tom sighs.

Profiler mind whirling to life, eyes flickering over his form, she notes that there is no sign of delirium, of wild uncontrolled emotion, only a blank blue gaze, thin pressed lips and a steady aim, gun trained on her chest. This isn’t Tom Keen; this isn’t the man she had first met at a coffee shop, no, not a teacher, not a normal, _kind_ person. No, this man knows how to wield a weapon, carries the weight of the gun comfortably in his hand.

“Who are you?” She grounds out, doesn’t move, can’t _think_.

Red will come looking for her.

“Doesn’t really matter, does it?” He replies smugly, waving the gun at her, trapping her further into the apartment. Stalking her like prey, Liz finds herself taking a step backwards as he approaches. The calmness he carries is eerie, unnerving.

Red will come looking for her.

He might be too late.

“What do you want?” Liz demands, can hear how weak and lame the question sounds as it spills from her mouth. It is as if she is in a film, one of the one’s Tom had once forced her to watch, a damsel in distress, incapable of protecting herself, scared and frightened. She bites down on her tongue, readies herself. She doesn’t need saving.

She can save herself.

“Reddington.”

And with that, with the obvious threat to one of the only people she still cares about, Liz is launching herself forward, trying to ignore her stupidity, hoping she has judged right as she lunges for the gun. If he is after Reddington, he won’t risk killing her.

She _is_ right.

Except that beating her doesn’t appear to be off the table.

The butt of the gun slams into her jaw as she tries to wrestling it from him, swiftly followed by a blow to her ribs, still tender, still mending. It has her grunting in pain, the air sucked out of her, gasping for breath, even as Tom kicks her to the floor, savage and merciless, sending her sprawling, fresh scars _screaming_ in protest.

His movements are methodical, precise, as if he has catalogued each and every one of her vulnerabilities, has aimed for them with meticulousness, wishing to dismantle her defences as quickly and efficiently as possible. It’s as if he _knows_.

Clutching at the floor, nails scrabbling for purchase of the unforgiving surface, Liz tries to breathe, she tries to swallow the pain, blink away the tears that have sprung up in the blue depths of her eyes. Even as she tries to heave her broken body, battered and weakened, not the finely tuned instrument of the warrior she had once been, she feels the ferocity of Tom looming above her. Soon enough she tastes the hard timber of her apartment, the barrel of the gun shoved into the back of her head.

She falls still.

There is blood in her mouth, an iron tang that fills her senses. She can smell it too, feels her shirt growing damp.

“Was that really necessary?” Tom breathes as he grasps her roughly by the collar of her shirt, of _Red’s_ dress shirt, and drags her to her feet. She can see the crimson seeping through her bandages and into the soft cotton, a lake spreading further and further into the stark white. Her wounds have been opened, torn apart.

He thrusts her into a chair and before she can right herself, before she can fall back into a defensive stance and keep fighting, keep _surviving_ , he has procured zip ties from his pocket and strapped her to the seat. The plastic is tight, bites into her skin with a keen sting. With a snarl, animalistic, frustrated, she glares up at him, breath still puffing from between her teeth.

The impassive stare, the way he takes in her injuries with a dismissive eye, no sign of shock, of remorse, makes her shudder. He is not out of breath, is fully in control of himself and the situation. A trained operative, certain in his movements, his motives, knows _exactly_ how to handle the circumstances. He’s been guided and coached for it his entire life.

A trained sociopath.

“You,” She breathes, because it is so _clear_ now and she’d been so _stupid_. “You’re the one who tipped off the FBI, the Head Hunters.”

He doesn’t give any response.

“It’s you. Red knew I was being followed, he just didn’t know who.”

And at that he laughs, shakes his head, looking at her as if she is something to be pitied, a stupid girl without a clue. Indignation scrapes against her teeth, remarks pooling on the tip of her tongue.

“You’ve got no idea, do you?” He observes, almost in awe, his voice pitched lower than usual. “You really have no idea who Reddington is, do you? Has he told you anything about the night of the fire, about who he is to you? Or did he just fuck you and send you on your way?”

She doesn’t respond, stares at him, even as a chill slinks down her spine, spreading poisonous doubt. The man standing before her had been a _lie_ , and she’d looked right past it, had missed _everything_. Making that mistake with Red as well, it is impossible, _sickens_ her.

“What are you talking about?” She growls, because it can’t be possible, he couldn’t have possibly _faked_ it, not Red, never Red. “What is going on? You were prepared to _marry_ me to get what you want. What the _fuck_ is going on? How do you know Red?”

There are so many questions now, something hysterical seeping into her tone, because Raymond Reddington is a criminal, and criminals are _notorious liars_. Tom is smiling at her now, a small sad smile as if he feels _sorry_ for her. Liz feels sick, she feels _ill_ , as if she is about to vomit, can feel it sitting in her chest, threatening to rise up her throat. Tom has to be lying, there is no other way.

He knows about the fire.

_He knows about the fire_.

Silence reigns when he doesn’t bother to answer her questions, just stalks behind her, out of sight. She doesn’t turn, doesn’t try to follow him with her eyes, stares straight ahead, tries to work her way out of the ties, to no avail. There is a rustle of clothing, and then he is standing before her, smiling like a shark.

“Think Reddington is going to come looking for you soon?”

Without a doubt.

“It’s just, I got a lot riding on this, and I don’t want to wait any longer than I have to,” he states genially, making Liz’s stomach roil with nausea. She knows she gives herself away when she looks at him, eyes wide, fearful.

He came for her, outgunned, outmanned, with hatred pulsing through his veins and vengeance surging through his heart. He came for her covered in blood, had it dripping from his digits onto the cold dungeon floor. He’d come for her before everything _else_.

He sure as hell would come for her now.

So, _of course_ , it’s a trap.

She clenches her eyes closed, tries to master her emotions, tries to think logically, _strategically_ , because Red dying isn’t an option, not now, not ever. It isn’t fair because she is the _bait_ ; she is always the bait, his weakness, the lure in which they drag him back, again and again. They treat her like a piece of meat, a _pawn_. Snapping her eyes open, she glowers at the man across from her.

Intimidation is her only option.

“Do you know what he did to the Head Hunter that hurt me?” She snarls, flicks her hair out of her face and she leans forward. His eyes are riveted to her, but he doesn’t look concerned, or interested. It doesn’t dissuade her. “In the end, it was the event that finally brought us together, to be honest.”

“It’s just, I’ve never seen someone plunge a blade so deep into someone’s chest before, didn’t think it was humanly possible. And sure, that guy, that nameless guy that he so casually slaughtered, he hurt me, real bad, but what do you think he’ll do to you Tom? How do you think he’ll handle the fact that you lied to me, manipulated me? Think he’ll be okay with the fact that you slept with me _for money_?” She spits at him, and she is furious now, livid.

“He is _Raymond Reddington_ , you know that right?”

All she is given a smirk and a nonchalant,

“I like my chances.”

And then her cell is buzzing, it is _screaming_ in the quiet, rattling on her kitchen countertop and Tom is grinning in triumph when he looks at the screen. Liz feels her heart plummet.

“Speak of the Devil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay not only has this update taken about 600 years this chapter was an absolute bitch to write. I just thought it was important to get Liz’s point of view about the whole ordeal across. I’m praying that my muse sorts its shit out and the next chapter is a lot easier and up a lot faster. Anywhoo, lemme know what you think, cheers!


	22. Close My Eyes To My Recent Disgrace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light,  
> ‘Cause oh that gave me such a fright,  
> But I will hold as long as you like,  
> Just promise me we’ll be alright.” – Ghosts That We Knew, Mumford and Son’s

Tom is direct on the phone, to the point. She desperately strains to hear any responses from Red, the deep timbre of his voice. Pulling at her ties, controlling the urge, the impulse, to call out to him, to warn him of the imminent attack, she tries to settle her breathing, to become as quiet as possible. Tom would end the call immediately, she is sure, if she were to make any noise.

Demands are made, threats snarled through the speaker. It is made abundantly clear that if Red dares to bring _anyone_ with him Liz will have a bullet lodged in her cranium before he gets through the door. The cold emotionless way in which Tom delivers this statement causes her to shudder, dread a toxic stream through her veins. Her eyes, wide and fearful, track her captor, the man she had trusted, _dated_ , as he paces from window to window, casually pulling the curtains aside, looking down on the street, scanning for a fedora and three-piece suit. Without rhythm, he taps his gun on his thigh, doesn’t look in her direction, not once, until he questions down the line, a mirthless smirk splayed across his features,

“I’ll expect you soon then?”

He snaps his phone in half, tosses it onto the floor, neither of them flinching at the clatter that rattles through her apartment in the still, tense silence. Liz can barely _breathe_.

Red is smart enough to know it’s a trap.

And she is smart enough to know that he’ll come for her either way.

Bile claws and climbs up her throat, body flushing hot, sweat beading on her brow, because she _doesn’t have a plan_. Tom is lurking behind her, biding his time, waiting, a patient and trained operative. A harsh, cold muzzle will be jabbed into her temple the moment Reddington appears. Tom is clever, smart, knows when to take care.

“How do you know about the fire?”

The fruitlessness of her situation, the unease that is creeping through her bloodstream, slick and oily, doesn’t stop her from trying to distract him, desperate in any way possible to aid Red, to _save_ Red. She will not admit to herself that she is terrified that she has been misled, manipulated by a man she so deeply cares about. Red withholds information, has an excruciatingly bad habit of doing so.

“What are you doing, Tom?”

It is a litany of questions, unrelenting.

“Who do you work for?”

It’s a live stream without filter, insistent.

“How do you know Reddington?”

Tom has come into her life, slunk and sleuthed his way in, for a _reason_ , because she is _worth_ something. It may not give her an advantage now, tied to a chair, bleeding and beaten, almost completely helpless, but if she has _worth_ he won’t kill her.

Not yet.

There is only one thing he gives her, an answer that sends a shudder through her, waves of nausea swirling and rising like a vicious tide swallowing the shoreline with fury. Wood yields beneath her fingernails, digging and chipping the paint away.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Liz. It wasn’t my job to _hurt you_. Reddington, he’s not who you think he is,” and it is said with such conviction, as if he _believes it_.

A scoff is trapped behind her teeth, a huff of air escaping her in dark amusement, because he is a _liar_ , a _spy_ and he makes her _sick_. It wasn’t his job to _hurt her_ , but here she sits, strapped down, a crimson stain across her abdomen. If she’d fought back further, if she’d had the strength to fight, he would have beaten her into submission.

So she sits, stony eyed, giving no reaction, tongue running along the back of her teeth. Tom shifts behind her as silence reigns. Now, they wait.

And then, minutes later, or hours, she isn’t sure, the door is bouncing on its hinges, thunder rumbling through the room in the form of footprints and tormented timber. Tom is a flurry of movement, his hand like a claw as it latches onto her shoulder, the flesh beneath yielding and bruising. The chair tips backwards, before she quickly rights her weight, breaths rasping from between her parted lips. Her eyes are rooted to the doorway, even as the barrel of the gun kisses her temple, the strands of hair there. Red sweeps into the room, weapon raised and expression positively deadly. Dembe looms behind him, eyes stony as they scan the surroundings.

“Slide it,” Tom demands, voice firm, “Slide the gun, _now_.”

He hasn’t looked at her yet, green eyes cold, merciless, _monstrous_.

“No,” he asserts, almost snarling.

His gun is riveted on the man behind her, the man using her as a _human shield_. The tremble that tingles through her body makes her feel _weak_ , vulnerable, at the mercy of these two men and the triggers they cradle that spew forth deadly metal oh so easily. He’d charged in here guns raised and called Tom’s _bluff_ , and it _terrifies_ her that he’d taken such a risk, a gamble, with her life.

“Are you hurt?” He asks, deadly serious.

It feels like a loaded question, a deep emotion rumbling through his chest and into the air, stained with apprehension. She winces, because he’d jumped ahead, asked the question having not glanced at her, the red staining his dress shirt, her wounds having been torn afresh. The very same skin he’d mapped with his lips the night before now broken and bleeding. When he _does_ finally notice, his jaw locks with rage, fury flittering through the icy fields of his irises. Without reason, without _logic_ , reassurances flood her tongue, words to comfort _him_ , even as she spies Tom’s finger hovering above the trigger of his gun, metal digging deeper and deeper into her skin until she thinks she may _bleed_.

“Don’t do it,” she says, sounding more desperate, hysterical, than she’d have liked, “Tom, _please_.”

It seems that her pleading is enough for _Red_ to lower his gun, keeping it clutched in his palm, knuckles turning white, Dembe following suit. A breath hisses out of her as she feels Tom minutely relax behind her, the pressure at her temple easing, if only slightly. Tearing her eyes away from Red doesn’t feel like an option, seeking reassurance, _safety_ , though he doesn’t meet her gaze.

“Tom, you’ve made it obvious where you stand,” Red remarks, shrugging his shoulders as he takes a step forwards, towards the gun in her captor’s hand, “You made empty threats. Elizabeth has too much value for you to kill her. Put the gun down before you do something you’ll regret.”

There is no movement. Tom doesn’t even flinch. His body is pulled taut like a bow, muscles trembling with restraint. His grip on her shoulder has not lessened, if anything it grows tighter as Red advances until Liz can’t help but try to wriggle free, the pain becoming too much. Dembe is a statue, mute and immobile by the kitchen, eyes trained on the situation. Horror is creeping, crawling, rotting her insides, burning and freezing her all at once until she can barely stand to look at anything but the floorboards of her apartment. The confidence that is leached through Reddington’s voice makes her feel ill, like it’s a _game_ to him.

And it’s _painful_ , because there had been a moment the night before, a moment where they weren’t tearing at each other’s clothing, nipping at each other’s skin, moaning into each other’s mouths, a moment where they’d _stopped_ , the world had _stopped_ , fallen silent. He’d looked down at her, body flush against her own, panting, and his eyes had _blazed_. They’d burned with sheer worship, with promise for so much more. It was in that moment that Liz knew she was exactly where she was supposed to be, with her chest aching and Raymond Reddington’s solid weight above her.

Maybe she’d been wrong.

“Tom, put the gun down before you do something you’ll deeply regret.”

He sounds like an exasperated mentor, his tone dripping with dissatisfaction, chiding an undisciplined pupil. With his head tilted to the side, lids half shuttered as his eyes rake over the room, over Liz, over Tom, levying the situation, calculating the risks, he takes a step forwards. Hesitation isn’t leaking through his movements, no sense of self-preservation as his weapon hangs by his side. _Confidence_ , composure, Raymond Reddington has it in surplus and Liz can’t help the surge of envy as her fingernails dig into the soft flesh of her palms, teeth grind to dust, insides twisting and knotting with anxiety.

But the gun doesn’t budge and Tom doesn’t say a word. A shiver slithers down her spine, a bead of sweat rolls down her ribcage. She drags her eyes up to find Red’s green gaze centred on her, soft and soothing. It’s enough to make her breath stall.

“If you kill her, you better kill me,” he then promises with a smile, “Or I’m _going_ to kill you.”

Tom scoffs at that, a sound so bitter and resentful that Liz spots the flicker of confusion that dances across Red’s features, the uncertainty. He doesn’t know this man, can only guess what he is capable of, what his motives could possibly be. They’re both at a distinct disadvantage.

“You’re all talk, Reddington,” Tom spits, mocking, as if he isn’t talking to a man whose hands are stained with blood, fingernails caked in rust, “The Concierge of Crime, king of an empire, a man that can’t even hire decent tails to keep track of me.”

The hairs on her arms stand on end, the realisation of Tom’s statement like a chill prickling at her skin, flesh crawling with comprehension. He’d _known_ , Reddington had _known_ who had been following her, sending tips to both the FBI and the Head Hunters. Betrayal worms its way through her system, ugly, feral, the trust she had had in him splintered and sharp now, _cutting_. He’d known all along and he hadn’t told her.

Unsurprisingly, he isn’t meeting her gaze any longer.

“Oh please, Tom, let’s not pretend that you didn’t kill them as well,” is the reply given, tone nonchalant, unfazed by the loss of human life, that his employees had been ruthlessly _murdered_. It feels as if he is buying time, stalling, a futile attempt to distract Tom, to distract _her_.

Liz thinks she may vomit.

She can’t see Tom’s expression from where she is strapped down, plastic biting into her skin, as he jostles her forwards, tipping the chair. The gun wavers by her face for a moment, glinting in the lowlight of the morning, until it is trained back on her temple. Red’s own weapon twitches, his left cheek jumping to life.

“You haven’t told her anything, have you?” Tom says and from the laughter in his voice, Liz knows that he is smiling. “No, you just fucked her without her having any idea at all, didn’t you?”

Red is silent, expression blank and Liz is convinced there must be wire wrapped around and entwined through the soft tissue of her lungs because she _can’t breathe_. Dembe shifts, also refuses to meet Liz’s gaze, a lump swelling in her throat, as the seconds tick on and on and on. She is too hot and too cold all at once, feeling as if she is falling, slipping and sliding, into some form of shock. A gaping wound has ruptured in her chest, oozing with confusion, with _pain_. It had been a _game_ , a ploy.

“You would know, Tom, you’ve been the one following her.”

Ah, there it is. The condemnation as permanent as a tattoo, his admission ricocheting through the barren room, still not directly admitted to, but there all the same.

“That was the reason you hired me,” retorts Tom and it’s spat so savagely, harshly, into the air surrounding them that for a moment, a blissful moment where she is already ravaged by treachery, the words don’t register, _until they do_ , and that sense of betrayal twists and morphs into fury, mortification.

Liz strangles down a wretched sob, blinking away the heat of tears, swallowing past the sting to her pride, the brutal agony of it all. Tom’s fingers are still digging into her skin, the gun still hovering by her side, and all she can focus on is that Red _lied_ to her. Dirty money had paid for a _spy_ to enter her life, to manipulate her, and he’d handed over the cheque. There is an ache spreading through her shoulders, a heaviness that plagues the muscles, drags them down, down, _down_ until she feels as if she is hunched in on herself, even though Tom’s grip on her is steadfast, locked in place.

She can still taste Red on her tongue, feel his fingers carding through her hair and dancing over the planes of her stomach. The heat of him still burns and tingles at her skin, his breath brushing over her collarbone as he steadies them both with soft words and warm laughter. She can still see the way he’d smiled down at her, his greens eyes bright and the skin around them creasing with joy, pleasure. The breathless way in which he’d look at her, working his jaw searching for words he could not find, she will never forget. And now, now he isn’t looking at her at all, can’t even bring himself to do so, staring stony faced at his _employee_.

“Who hired you away?” He asks, sounding genuinely curious, head still held at an angle, face impassive if it weren’t for the jump in his left cheek. His eyes don’t stray once, and Liz thinks that may be the one thing that hurts the most. The question he asked doesn’t make any sense, sends her spinning further into the opening maw of chaos that has wreaked havoc throughout her mind.

“ _Red_ ,” she croaks, sounding broken, which she _hates_ , but her throat feels as if it’s been scrubbed relentlessly with sandpaper, dry and rubbed raw. When his eyes drift down to hers, the first sign of reluctance he has shown throughout the entire ordeal, she manages to say, voice unwavering,

“I _never_ want to see you again.”

It’s the tick in his cheek that alerts her that he isn’t completely unfazed by her statement. He nods his head once, a jerky movement, before returning his attention to Tom. Tongue rolling around his mouth, wetting his lips, he repeats his question, and Liz thinks that his voice might be that tiny bit rougher. Tom gives a mirthless chuckle, a gust of hot air ruffling the wisps of hair around her face.

“There was a man hunting you, called himself Berlin,” Tom begins, “He had a criminal empire to rival yours, Reddington. He wanted you dead more than anything in the world, and he knew just how to get to you.”

His lips are at the shell of her ear suddenly, chapped and dry as they brush across the skin, his breath humid. Red’s taken a step forward, raised his gun, lip caught between his teeth, a storm building and raging across the green meadow of his eyes. Leaning away, Liz swallows back the snarl clawing its way up her throat, the disgust that bristles at her insides.

“ _Little Lizzie_ ,” is what he whispers in her ear, before drawing back, voice dropping into the harsh rasp he had adopted. She turns to look at him as he says, head cocked to the side and a smirk pulling at his features,

“But he wasn’t the only one that to know about her, was he? There are others, and they found out about me, knew that I’d betrayed you, under the pretence that Berlin could protect me. He’d offered me Liz, but they offered me more money _and Liz_ , for a time at least. So, after accomplishing some of their conditions, I left Berlin’s organisation.”

Livestock, she feels as if she is livestock, meat bartered and traded over, packaged and delivered, carted off to the highest bidder. Rage unfurls inside her, the heat of it blackening and charring her gut, burning, burning, _burning_ , the indignation of it all decaying her veins, diseasing her bone marrow. There is nowhere for her to turn, to hide her shame, her _stupidity_ at trusting a stranger, at trusting a renowned _criminal_.

“I suppose I should consider myself lucky,” Red remarks, tone taunting, “I’ve only got a hostage situation to deal with, whereas I assume this Berlin is already six-feet under and rotting.”

“They had him cremated,” Tom replies, false cheer seeping into his voice, something designed to torment, injure, in the air about him. “You do know how the Cabal loves to burn things.”

Liz thinks that this is the first time she has ever seen Red out of his depth, grappling for control of the situation. It seems that Tom is fully aware of all the buttons to press, where to rub salt into the wound, pick at scabs and scars alike. Red is mute now, jaw locked, teeth more likely than not grinding away at each other. His hands are still steady, breaths even, but there is a haunted look leaking into his stare, something heavy and _old_ , the way one would gaze at the rubble of a building, a home, thinking back to the way things had once been so long ago.

“She doesn’t know anything,” the statement punctuated by the way he knocks the chair, rocks her to the side, her hair slipping in front of her eyes so she can’t see Red’s expression, the way he swallows, bites at his lip with indecision.

“Shall I tell her?” He whispers, as if sharing a great secret, “Do you want me to tell her about the fire? About Sam? I’ve got the bank statements, stole them from her apartment while you two were off getting up to God knows what, but I’m sure the FBI would like to know. Does she know about all the mysterious amounts of money, funding, that she got over the years. Do you want me to tell her that they came from you? Come on, Reddington, surely you want some credit.”

The muzzle of his gun is still pressed against the soft, tender flesh of her temple, bruising. Her tongue is caught between her teeth, blood pooling in her mouth as she bites. She wants it to stop; she wants it _all to stop_. Red’s gaze is back to resting on her and there is a softness to his voice that, even after the lies, the deceit, it still makes her chest ache.

“I could just as easily tell her, Tom, but she’s a clever woman, I’m sure she’s worked out most of it already.”

And that seems to sting so much more, because she doesn’t understand at all. This connection he has to her, this _link_. He has been a shadow lurking on the fringes of her life since she was a little girl, and she doesn’t understand why, understand _any_ of it. There are oceans welling in her eyes, tornados building in her lungs, until she is gasping for air, tears leaking down the swell of her cheeks.

“Lizzie,” and his voice sounds broken, gentle, soft waves crashing over a tormented shore, a soft rasp in the stillness of the room, “There is so much more to what you know, things that you couldn’t _possibly_ understand yet. And for that reason, I needed to protect you, to keep you safe. _That_ is why I hired Tom, to keep an eye on you from afar, to ensure your safety, admittedly an egregious error.”

She’s shaking her head at him, feeling tears spill down her cheeks, wet and hot. Her throat is swollen, her tongue too, lungs so constricted she can barely breathe, let along talk. Tom lets out a scoff behind her, tightens his grip on her shoulder.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She gasps, broken, pitiful; sounding so weak it makes her sick.

He heaves a sigh, quickly darts his eyes to Dembe and then back to her, green bleeding with sorrow. She sees that he swallows, blinks quickly, bites at his lip, all signs of emotional strain. Standing there before her in his three-piece suit, immaculate and powerful, he has never looked so small.

“I just wish you’d waited a year, sweetheart.”

It causes her to blink, another thing she can’t grasp the meaning of, but before she can tumble his statement over her grief ravaged mind, Tom is speaking again, dragging the chair back, pulling the gun away to aim at Reddington.

“It’s time for us to go, Reddington, so if you’d be so kind, I’d appreciate it if you make your way to Liz’s bedroom,” he instructs, “I’m sure you’ve been in their often enough.”

“What a ridiculous thing to say,” barks Red through a bout of laughter, his smile wide, bright and false, “That’s your plan, Tom, to walk through that door with Lizzie in tow? You thought that I wouldn’t realise this is a trap, that I don’t have contingencies in place?”

Dembe is shifting to stand by the door now, weapon cocked and ready. Tom’s spare hand is working the ties loose from the chair, until he is heaving Liz up and she is standing on wobbly legs, blood soaked shirt sticking to her skin. And Reddington is standing in the middle of the living room, solid, unyielding, gun clasped in his palm and murder etched into his features.

“You know who I am, Tom, and I know what you’re capable of. I know that the Cabal are coming, that you’re waiting for them to burst through that door, using Elizabeth as the shield you need to ensure that I don’t simply kill you in revenge before I’m taken.”

His tone is stern, commanding, an officer amid a war, deep and dangerous. The gun is jammed into her back now, concealed from Red’s sight, biting at her skin, scraping against her spine. Tom is panicking, his breath hot and heavy against the base of her neck. She clenches her eyes closed, wonders what he could have _possibly_ planned, what _either_ of them had planned, and wonders if these will be her last few moments, feeling as if her chest has been cleaved apart and her whole life spun into a lie.

“You’re buying time,” Red states, voice dipping into a growl, a low rumble that has Liz’s nerves thrumming, adrenaline flooding through her. He sounds terrifying, _ferocious_. “You knew I’d come for Lizzie, no matter the danger.”

“You’re not as smart as you make yourself out to be then, Reddington,” Tom retorts, dragging Liz backwards a step. He is cornering himself now, an intermittent tremble wracking the hand that clutches at her shoulder. Buying time yes, he is, at first for his employers, but now, for himself. Red is advancing towards them, looking as fierce and violent as the Concierge of Crime should, lecturing as he draws closer, patronising smile in place.

“The one thing you didn’t account for was that I’d bring Dembe, foolishly assuming that because you’d threatened Lizzie, that I’d blindly accept your terms,” it’s with a theatrical sigh that he delivers this, continuing with, “But Tom, you took her hostage for a _reason_ , to negotiate, to lure me here. Killing Elizabeth was never an option for you. So, I called your bluff, brought Dembe and you’ve left yourself wide open.”

A smile would be tugging at her features if terror, betrayal, humiliation wasn’t bleeding through her muscles, veins, her mind wasn’t foggy with agony. He’s talking and talking, _bragging_. There is a plan; he is _Raymond Reddington_ , of course he will get them out safe and unharmed.

“You’ve given yourself too much value, Tom, don’t you understand? The Cabal don’t care if you live or die, they’re going to storm this apartment as soon as they hear that first gunshot.”

He pauses, before snarling,

“And if you’ve killed me, you’re dead, and if I’ve killed you, you’re still _dead_. They are _waiting_ for me to shoot you, Tom.”

In the silence, it feels as if Liz can hear Tom weighing his options, digging the gun savagely into her back with each and every dead-end he hits. Time passes on and on and the four of them are stuck in limbo, her heaving breaths loud in the silence as she chomps down on the emotion that is bitter on the back of her tongue. Red is back to ignoring her presence, focus entirely riveted onto Tom.

“The only thing that matters to you is that Liz gets out of here,” he eventually states, voice soft, contemplative. Red doesn’t respond. “You’ve planned your way out; you’ve got something set up to avoid capture, particularly, _especially_ , for her. The Cabal want you both alive.”

Liz’s eyes dart to the door, Dembe’s bulking mass before it. His expression is uneasy now, brows drawing into a frown. Tension riddles the air, putrid and thick. Red shifts, the fabric of his clothing rustling softly. Clammy hands grip and re-grip weapons, the trundling Washington traffic rumbles below, the fridge hums, and in the quiet the sound of the elevator doors _ding_.

“I expect you didn’t plan for this, though.”

Metal is wrenching through tissue, through muscle, grazing bone, burning through skin. A scream is torn from the back of her throat, harsh and agonised as her body is dragged to the ground, Tom throwing himself behind her when Reddington goes to return fire. Blood is spilling out of her, soaking through the already ruined shirt, rolling down her ribcage, her shoulder blades. It’s burning pressure and freezing agony, it’s a throbbing ache and a raging sting. Her face is scrunched in anguish, eyes closed in distressed, gasps ripped from her heaving chest, the pain spreading and _spreading_ until she thinks it might just consume her.

She can hear Red; can hear him shouting her name. Another gunshot rings throughout the room, the door bursting into splinters at the same time as her eyes snap open, something heavy landing beside her. Tom’s dead blue irises stare back at her, his mouth agape and slack. Then there are hands filling her vision, grabbing at her, pulling, dragging, and voices, _so many voices_ , shouting and yelling. Gunshot after gunshot, the rumble of boots on timber, and Liz is still screaming, tearing them from her chest, her shoulder burning, bleeding.

And then it’s all too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, you still with me guys? I know it’s been about eternity since I’ve updated, and I’m really sorry about that, so I hope that this chapter makes up for it. And yes, another cliffhanger, I suggest you ah, start to love them, because with the sequel coming up, you’re due for a few more. Anyways, if you’ve stuck with me this far, thank you so much for reading and your support is greatly appreciated. Final chapter should be up in a week, or two, I promise.


	23. I Turned My Back On The World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Then you came into my life with come hither in your eyes  
> Pulling me outta the grave what a nice surprise  
> I die when our nights end, but I only stay dead til I see you again” – Louisa, Lord Huron
> 
> This is short, kind of more like an epilogue, if you will. Enjoy!

The steady whine of machinery is what wakes her, the incessant thrum of her heartbeat converted into a mechanical beep that makes her grit her teeth. It’s a familiar sound, one that she should _know_ , _understand_ , but she’s wrapped in a haze of sleep; vision blurry, her mouth dry and sour, drifting through a blissful semi-awareness of her surroundings; only knowing of soft blankets and warm sheets. Until the throbbing ache, the constant and steady bolts of pain that burn and blister at her skin, makes her snap her eyes open, a gasp of agony torn from her chest. She thinks for a moment that there is shrapnel still embedded beneath her battered flesh, pieces of metal that are biting at her muscles, shredding tendons. Moving her shoulder is impossible, strapped as it is to her body, the pain so intense.

And with a spike of terror, she realizes she doesn’t know where she is, why she’s in a hospital bed, her shoulder seemingly on fire. Blinking into the bright light, eyes aching, she takes note that it isn’t a hospital; it’s a room, deep red timber floors and sunlight filtering through the window. It’s sparse, not regularly used, the lack of furniture obvious in the snug quarters, but homey all the same. A safe house, it’s one of Red’s safe houses.

There is a hand clasped in hers, dry and warm, and it curbs the flood of adrenaline that had soared through her being, made her lungs tight. The heat bleeding into her palm is safety, _protection_ , it eases the fear that had latched like an iron claw around her heart, made her muscles tremble. Gingerly, she turns her head to face him, waiting to be greeted with soft blue eyes, a warm smile, and perhaps her name on his lips. She expects that he’ll be dressed, fedora crooked on his head, as immaculate as usual, uninjured, _and safe_. She expects that the both of them are _safe_. He is Raymond Reddington; of course he had a _plan_.

Brown eyes stare back at her, grief bleeding through their dark depths, lips pulled into a thin line, expression so serious and sober. It’s Dembe. Dembe with dark heavy bags beneath his eyes, wrinkled clothing and a bruise blossoming across is features. He is sitting with her, clutching her hand, while she is strapped up to hospital machinery, adrenaline flooding back as quickly as it had receded.

And then she remembers.

She remembers the cold kiss of Tom’s weapon against the soft skin of her temple, can still see Dembe standing by her doorway, the bluff that Red had called that so blatantly risked her life. She recalls his blasé nature about the whole ordeal, as if Liz couldn’t taste death on the back of her tongue. Until there was talk of Tom’s employer, that they wanted Red, they wanted _her_ , alive; he’d grown serious after that.

She can still see the remorse that had been etched over his features as he’d admitted that he’d been the one to _hire_ Tom, that he was the man that planted a spy into her life. She remembers Tom bragging about his knowledge of the fire, the fire that had claimed both her parents’ lives, the fire Red was seemingly _involved_ in. His eyes so soft and blue and _sorrowful_ as he’d looked down on her, meaningless words tumbling from between lips she’d never forget the taste of.

She remembers Tom wrenching her body before him, using her as a shield from Reddington, hearing the snick of the trigger before the bullet burst forth, tore through her body, wrenched through the flesh of her shoulder. The pain she can still feel, even muted by the drugs now flowing through her bloodstream. Seeing her front door splinter, a storm of men trampling through the entry way as she bled out on the floor, she remembers. Tom’s dead eyes staring back at her, she will never forget.

And then there is nothing.

She can’t remember what happened to Red, why he wouldn’t be here.

Her grip on Dembe’s hand tightens, tears springing forth as she wrestles to sit up, even as he tries to coax her back down, murmuring her name in a deep sorrowful tone. A sob is clawing up her throat, wrestling with the fear, vomit, until she is heaving over the bed, retching onto the pristine floorboards, coughing and hacking as spittle dangles from her parted lips, her wounds screaming in protest. His hands are on her back, by her ribcage, so gentle and careful, lifting her back until she is sitting upright and a glass of water is before her.

“What happened?” She croaks, ignoring the offered drink, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she stares at the man across from her. He should be with Red, they were rarely ever apart.

_Red should be here_.

He takes his time to reply, seems to weigh his words, just like his employer, his _brother_. Fumbling for his hand, Liz grips it so tight she thinks that her knuckles may split through her skin, urging him to hurry. Questions dance and tangle in her mind, a cacophony of fear and confusion.

“The reason Raymond was planning for the both of you to flee the country is because he got credible information from an inside source that a shadow organisation is hunting the both of you,” he begins, rubbing at the soft stubble that has sprouted across his jaw line. Liz has never seen him so dishevelled.

“When we discovered that Tom Keen had taken you hostage, we organised for a team to surround your building,” continuing on, his eyes never stray from her face, “Raymond was going to come for you no matter the cost, no matter that it was evident a trap had been set.”

“There were procedures put in place, to extract both of you, but obviously, Raymond’s first and only concern was for you, to get you out safe and unharmed.”

It makes sense now, the last thing Tom had murmured before pulling the trigger, sacrificing himself and hoping to bring Red down with him.

_I expect you didn’t plan for this_.

The plan had gone wrong, had been twisted and manipulated into mayhem, it had splintered as surely as her front door had. Those unknown assailants, they hadn’t been Red’s men, as far from allies as you could get. They had been armed to the teeth, combat boots pounding across the floor, directions and commands shouted over the din, and still she remembers hearing Red’s voice above it all.

Hands had been grabbing at her, pulling her away from the onslaught, towards safety. She assumes it was Dembe; he’d left his post by Red to save her.

“Where’s Red,” she asks, voice choked, fearful, “Dembe, where is he?”

It takes an eternity for him to answer, his expression grave.

“He’s been taken, Elizabeth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, there we go, another classic cliffhanger to go with the rest and to finish of She Put Her Scar Upon My Skin. The sequel, I’ll Crawl Home To Her, will pick up pretty much when we’ve left off, so it’s going to be very intense. The first instalment of that should be up in the next few weeks should all go well. Thank you so much for all your unwavering support; it has been my inspiration to keep writing.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer; I do not own the Blacklist or any of its characters.


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